"Most careless of me, I assure you," he apologised. "I should have noticed of course—people often make nervous mistakes at times like those; but it was not till this morning that I discovered that Lady Isabelle had written her name in the space reserved for the bride, and you in the space reserved for the witness."
"Well?" asked Miss Fitzgerald, her voice ringing hard and cold as steel.
"Oh, it's all right, my dear," the old man quavered on. "Quite all right, I corrected it myself. I can do a neat bit of work still, even if my hands do tremble a little. I cut out the names, reversed them, and put them back in their proper places, and I'd defy any but an expert to see that they'd been tampered with. I'm sure that none of the people who've seen the book since suspected the change."
"Who has seen the book?" she asked, frozen with horror.
"After I corrected the register?"
"Yes! Yes! Who?"
"Dear me—let me see! That was this morning. Now who was there? Ah!—I remember. A strange lady in black, very beautiful, and Mr. Kent-Lauriston."
Miss Fitzgerald shuddered.
"Dear, dear!" cried the parson. "You're cold—the draught from the window—let me get you a wrap."
"No, no, I'm quite warm, thank you. You're sure that no one else saw the register?"