“Is this the train for London?” he asked an inspector at 11.35.

“Can’t you see?” said the inspector, brightly.  As a fact, “Euston” was written all over the train.  But Arthur wanted to be sure this time.

The express departed from Birmingham with the nicest exactitude, and covered itself with glory as far as Watford, when it ran into a mist, and lost more than a quarter of an hour, besides ruining Arthur’s career.

Arthur arrived in London at one minute past two.  He got out of the train with no plan.  The one feasible enterprise seemed to be that of suicide.

“Come on, now,” said a voice—­a voice that staggered Arthur.  It was a man with a crutch who spoke.  It was Simeon.  “Come on, quick, and don’t talk too much!  To the hotel first.”  Simeon hobbled forward rapidly, and somehow (he could not explain how) the anvil and pincers had left Arthur.

“I got hold of a milk-cart with a sharpened horse, and drove to Knype.  Horse fell once, but he picked himself up again.  Cost me a sovereign.  Only just caught the train.  Shouldn’t have caught it if they hadn’t sent off the Birmingham part before the London part.  I was astonished, I can tell you, not to find you at Euston.  Went to the hotel.  Found ’em all waiting, of course, and practically weeping over a telegram from you.  However, I soon arranged things.  Had to buy a crutch....  Here, boy, lift!” They were in the hotel.

On a bed all Arthur’s finest clothes were laid out.  The famous trunk was at the foot of the bed.

“Quick!”

“But look here!” Arthur remonstrated.  “It’s after two now.”

“Well, if it is?  We’ve got till three.  I’ve arranged with the mandarin chap for a quarter to three.”

“I thought these things couldn’t occur after two o’clock—­by law.”

“That’s what’s the matter with you,” said Simeon; “you think too much.  The two o’clock law was altered years ago.  Had anything to eat?” He was helping Arthur with buttons.

“No.”

“I expected not.  Here!  Swallow this whisky.”

“Not I!” Arthur protested in a startled tone.

“Why not?”

“Because I shall have to kiss her after the ceremony.”

“Bosh!” said Simeon.  “Drink it.  Besides, there’s no kissing in a Registry Office.  You’re thinking of a church.  I wish you wouldn’t think so much.  Here!  Now the necktie, you cuckoo!”

In three minutes they were driving rapidly through the London mist towards the other sex, and in a quarter of an hour there was one bachelor the less in this vale of tears.

THE WIDOW OF THE BALCONY

I