Mr. Doidge fumbled in his pockets, found his spectacles, adjusted them with a shaking hand, and sat down before the bureau to search for the licence. The pigeon-holes contained but a few bundles of papers, all tied very neatly with red tape and docketed. (Neatness, at any rate, was one of Mr. Whitmore's virtues. Although the carpet lay littered with books, boots, and articles of clothing which by their number proclaimed the dandy, the few selected for the valise had been deftly packed and with extreme economy of space.) In the first drawer below the writing flap the Rector found the register and parish account-books in an orderly pile. He seized on the register at once, opened it, and ran his eyes down the later pages, muttering while he read.
"There is no entry here of Miss Brooks's marriage," he announced. "One, two, three, five marriages in all entered in his handwriting: but no such name as Brooks or Plinlimmon. Stay: what is the meaning of this?—a blank line between two entries—one of March 20th, the other of the 25th—both baptisms. Looks as if he'd left room for a post-entry. Let's have a look at the papers."
He tossed the bundles over and found one labelled "Marriages"; spread the papers out and rubbed his head in perplexity. Isabel's licence was not among them.
Next he began to open the books and shake them, pausing now and again as a page of figures caught his eye.
"Accounts seem in order, down to the petty cash." He stooped, picked up and opened a small parcel of coin wrapped in paper, which his elbow had brushed off the ledge. "Fifteen and ninepence—right, to a penny. But where in the world's that licence?"
There were drawers in the lower half of the bookcase, and he directed me to search in these while he hunted again through the bureau. And while we were thus occupied the door opened and Miss Belcher re-entered the room with Mr. Rogers at her heels. Had it been possible to associate tears with Miss Belcher, I could have sworn she had been weeping. Her first words, and the ringing masculine tone of them, effaced that half-formed impression.
"What the dickens are you two about?"
"We are searching for a licence," the Rector answered. "I am right, Mr. Rogers—am I not?—in my recollection that Whitmore indicated it to be here, in this room, and easily found?"
"To be sure he did," said Mr. Rogers.
"I cannot find it among his papers—which, for the rest, are in apple-pie order."