"That was it. An' if you hadn't come by this train, sor, I would have opened it meself." He looked at me defiantly.
"She says here--at least, I think she means to say, that she is going to be married,--and in mad foolishness. Wait till I see what I can learn by telephone."
I got Mr. Ellison's house first. Mrs. Crosswell, who answered, was sure that Miss Benbow was not at home, but did not have any idea where she was. Did not know whether she had taken anything with her when she left the house or not. I then called up Mrs. Whyte, explained that a letter from Jean suggested a possible elopement, and begged her to go over and see if she could find out where Jean went, when she left the house, and whether she had taken any things that would indicate a contemplated permanent departure. I then took my head in my hands and thought, holding down the terror that surged up every other moment and almost made thinking impossible. "If you hear that I am married," she had said. Was it Garney? Never mind. Garney or anyone else, people could not be married without certain preliminaries, without leaving certain records. There must have been a license. I took Barney with me in the cab, and we whirled up to the court house.
"Have you any record of issuing a marriage license for Jean Benbow within the last few days?" I demanded of the clerk.
Why has the Lord made so many stupid people? My question had to be handed on from one clerk to another and record after record after record examined,--and here every wasted minute was wearing away this "day," this critical day, over which Jean had wished her secret to be kept. I held my watch in my hand while they searched. At last they found it.
"Looks like Jack put this memorandum where it wouldn't be found too easy," the successful searcher said significantly to his fuming superior.
It was quite possible,--for the memorandum showed the issue of a license for the marriage of Allen King Garney and Jean Benbow, and it was dated the day before. She had stipulated with Barney that I should not receive her letter till after to-day, which meant that this was the day. And here it was drawing toward five o'clock.
Then, out of the intense anxiety which fused all thought and feeling into one passionate will to save her, came the inspiration. She had said, on that drive when I took her and old William Jordan out into the country, that if ever she were married it would be there , in the vine-covered church of the old suburb where her mother had stood a bride. The recollection was almost like a voice,--"Don't you remember?" I did,--oh, I did! Every word, every look. My hand was shaking as I turned the pages of the city directory, trying to identify the church which I knew only by its location, and to discover the name of its minister. Then I turned again to the telephone. There was no connection with the church, but I succeeded at last in getting the minister's house.
"No, Mr. Arnold is not at home," a gentle feminine voice answered. "He has gone to the church to perform a marriage ceremony."
"Can you catch him?--stop him? Is it too late?" I cried desperately over the wire.