About five o’clock, the groom, chancing to glance out of the window, saw two men,—strangers in Whitewater but perfectly well known to him,—walking up the path that led to the front door.
For a second he sat motionless; the next, he turned and looked into the grey eyes of his bride.
“Eris,” he said calmly, “if anybody asks for me say I’ve run down to the mill and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
She smiled vaguely as he rose and went out the back way where the automobiles were parked.
A few minutes later Odell was called from the room by one of his sons:
“Say, pop, there’s a party out here inquiring for someone they call Eddie Graydon.”
Odell went out to the porch: “What name?” he demanded, eyeing the two strangers and their dripping umbrellas.
“You Elmer Odell?” demanded the taller man.
“That’s what my ma christened me,” replied Odell, jocosely.
“Your daughter marrying a man who calls himself E. Stuart Graydon?”