Miss Consuelo Spring Lindley became Mrs. Willoughby Bagot ere August was old. The wedding took place one morning at Holy Brush and was extremely quiet.
Mr. Worcester obtained one day’s leave without arousing suspicion, and the quick congregation consisted of a tearful Mrs. Le Fevre, that lady’s solicitor, who gave the bride away, and William, the groom. For the dead I cannot answer, but if polished brass and marble may be believed, eleven Gray Bagots slept through the simple service beneath the cold, white flags.
The following morning, Benedict was back at his work.
This, however, was destined to be disturbed.
Shortly before ten o’clock, his employer summoned him to the library, and bade him close the door.
“Worcester,” said Mr. Harp, “I ’ave some very queer noos. In fac’, I’m all of a shake—never ’ad such a night in me life, wakin’ up all of a sweat and tossin’ and tryin’ to think, till me brain rebelled against me.” He sighed heavily, holding a hand to his head. “As for Mrs. ’Arp, she’s that struck and bewildered, she’s stayin’ in bed.”
Willoughby regarded his employer and then fixed his eyes upon the floor.
“Yes, sir?” he said steadily.
“Yesterday afternoon I ’ad an offer for the ’ouse.” The Groom of the Chambers started and then went very pale. “Lock, stock and barrel—just as I bought it meself.” Mr. Harp paused as if seeking for appropriate words. Suddenly he smote upon the table and let out a cry. “They might’ve offered me twice—free times what I gave and I’d ’ave ’ad ’em shown out wiv a flea in their ear. Forty-five thousan’ I paid, as p’r’aps you know. Well—I can’t ’ardly believe it, but they offered me ten times that.”
“Four hundred and fifty thousand!”