As they descended the steps, the clergyman raised his hands.
“I wish you both long life and prosperity, and may Heaven's blessing fall upon you.”
“Back to the 'Cawthorne,'” said Quincy, as he pressed a small roll of paper into the chauffeur's hand—which roll of paper a friendly street light showed to be a five dollar bill.
“What will that horrid Mr. Cass say?”
“I'll fix him,” replied Quincy. “Just await developments, patiently, my dear.”
It was a quarter of eleven when they reached the hotel. Mr. Cass was at his desk, the light turned down in anticipation of the closing hour.
“The certificate, darling,” Quincy whispered.
“Please turn up the light, Mr. Cass, and read that.”
Mr. Cass adjusted his pince-nez. Quincy was relentless. His turn had come.
“Is that in proper form, Mr. Cass? I know your rules are strict, and that your employer holds you to them tenaciously,” and there was a strong accent on the last word.