harmed."

Beale, revolver still in hand, made his way to the door and was
admitted.

"You had better come along, Homo," he said, "we may have to bluff this
out."

Van Heerden was waiting for him in the hall and invited him no farther.

"You are perfectly at liberty to take away your wife," said van Heerden;
"she will probably explain to you that I have treated her with every
consideration. Here she is."

Oliva was descending the stairs with slow, deliberate steps.

"I might have been very angry with you," van Heerden went on, with that
insolent drawl of his; "happily I do not find it any longer necessary to
marry Miss Cresswell. I was just explaining to this gentleman"--he
pointed to the pallid young curate in the background--"when your voices
reached me. Nevertheless, I think it only right to tell you that your
marriage is not a legal one, though I presume you are provided with a
special licence."

"Why is it illegal?" asked Beale.

He wondered if Parson Homo had been recognized.

"In the first place because it was not conducted in the presence of
witnesses," said van Heerden.

It was Homo who laughed.

"I am afraid that would make it illegal but for the fact that you
witnessed the ceremony by your own confession, and so presumably did
your fat friend behind you."

Mr. Milsom scowled.

"You were always a bitter dog to me, Parson," he said, "but I can give
you a reason why it's illegal," he said triumphantly. "That man is
Parson Homo, a well-known crook who was kicked out of the Church fifteen
years ago. I worked alongside him in Portland."

Homo smiled crookedly.

"You are right up to a certain point, Milsom," he said, "but you are
wrong in one essential. By a curious oversight I was never unfrocked,
and I am still legally a priest of the Church of England."

"Heavens!" gasped Beale, "then this marriage is legal!"

"It's as legal as it can possibly be," said Parson Homo complacently.

CHAPTER XXI

BEALE SEES WHITE

"In a sense," said Lawyer Kitson, "it is a tragedy. In a sense it is a
comedy. The most fatal comedy of errors that could be imagined."

Stanford Beale sat on a low chair, his head in his hands, the picture of
dejection.

"I don't mind your kicks," he said, without looking up; "you can't say
anything worse about me than I am saying about myself. Oh, I've been a
fool, an arrogant mad fool."

Kitson, his hands clasped behind his back under his tail coat, his
gold-rimmed