Trenholm and Miriam, who had sat enthralled drinking in his words and the message which his eyes spoke more eloquently than human lips, both looked up to find Alexander Nash standing in the doorway contemplating them.
“I drove over to see you, Trenholm, but that rascally servant of yours refused to tell me where you were to be found,” explained Nash. “I then drove to Upper Marlboro and the constable finally ‘allowed’ you might be here. Such crass stupidity has cost me valuable time!” And Nash, the usually polished, suave clergyman as known in Washington and Toronto church circles, flung himself into a chair near Miriam, his face like a thundercloud.
“Why the excitement?” asked Trenholm, regarding him keenly.
“I have a confession to make.” Nash took out his large silk handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. “No, don’t go, Miss Ward—this interview holds as much interest for you as it does for the sheriff. It was in his presence that I told you that I failed to recall certain incidents of Monday night—”
“Whereby you lied,” pointed out Miriam coolly, and noted with relish Nash’s apoplectic complexion.
“You use a harsh term, Miss Ward,” he objected. “My statement was, strictly speaking, an evasion—I did not deny that the incidents took place—simply that I did not recall them.”
“Oh, come to the point!” Trenholm’s tone was not complimentary, and Nash squirmed in his chair.
“Miss Carter and I were here on Monday night,” he began. “And I did perform the marriage service—uniting Paul and Betty in holy wedlock.”
Nash’s statement did not create the excitement he had anticipated and he looked from one to the other of his companions in intense surprise.
“Did you talk with Paul?” asked Trenholm quickly.