is late! He must bargain with a street jehu. But, pshaw!
where can he find a clean vehicle? He hurries along the pavement.

His own driver, approaches. "I went to the stables to put the last
touches on her. Come around to Wabash avenue and see how she shines."

It is not too late after all, and the groom will turn out of a
faultless equipage at the very moment. Ladies of experience, like Mrs.
Lockwin, notice all such things.

"In fact," says George Harpwood, "there is no other man in town whom
she could marry, even if she loved him. Might as well expect her to
marry Corkey. Poor dead Corkey!"

It is pleasant, this riding down Prairie avenue to one's wedding.

"Splendid! Splendid!" cries the ardent soldier of fortune, as the
blaze of the Wandrell mansion flashes through the plate-glass windows,
of his carriage. It is the largest private residence in the city.
"Splendid!" he repeats, and leaps out on the curb. A messenger is
hurrying away.

"Is that Esther on the portico? What an impulsive woman."

His back is towards the carriage to close the silver-mounted door. He
turns.

It must be a mistake! Is he blind? The mansion, which was a moment
before ablaze, is now all dark! But the bride still stands under the
lamp on the portico, statuesque as Zenobia or Medea. The statue grasps
a paper. Like Galatea, she speaks:

"Is that you, George?"

[Illustration: But the bride still stands under the lamp on the
portico, statuesque as Zenobia or Medea.]

"I have come, my love. What has happened?"

"Listen!" she commands, and reads by the portico light:

Thursday Afternoon, Nov. 30.

ESTHER, MY WIFE AND WIDOW:

It is absolutely necessary that you should come at once to the drug
store formerly kept by Dr. Floddin, at 803 State street.

Bring an escort.

This step must be taken in your own interest--certainly not in the
interest of your husband.

DAVID LOCKWIN.

"Come!" she says, taking her lover by the hand as a teacher might take
a child.

But George Harpwood is not at his wits' end.

"Get into my carriage, Esther," he suggests softly.

"No," she says sternly. "We will walk thither."

The pair go round the corner into a mist made azure by a vast building
which is lighted at every window to the seventh story. It rises three
blocks away like a storm-cloud over the lake.

It is the David Lockwin Annex. The bride hurries faster than the
bridegroom