Hartley had hardly glanced at Mel, and her veil had hidden her features.  He had gone toward his study rubbing his hands in a peculiar manner which Lane remembered and which recalled the man as he had looked many a time in the Bradford billiard room when a good joke was going the rounds.  Lane saw him hurry from his study with pleasant words of invitation to his guests, a mysterious air about him, a light upon his face.  The ladies and gentlemen rose from their tables and advanced from the library to the door of the drawing-room.  A girl of striking figure seized Hartley’s arm and gesticulated almost wildly.  It was Helen Wrapp.  Her husband laughed at her and waved a hand toward the drawing-room and his guests.  Turning swiftly with tigerish grace, she bent upon Lane great green eyes whose strange expression he could not fathom.  What passionately curious eyes did she now fasten on his prospective bride!

Lane gripped Mel’s hand.  He felt the horror of what might be coming.  What a blunder he had made!

“Will the lady kindly remove her veil?” Hartley’s voice sounded queer.  His smile had vanished.

As Mel untied and thrust back the veil her fingers trembled.  The action disclosed a lovely face as white as snow.

“Mel Iden!” burst from the magistrate.  For a moment there was an intense silence.  Then, “I’ll not marry you,” cried Hartley vindictively.

“Why not?  You said you would,” demanded Lane.

“Not to save your worthless lives,” Hartley returned, facing them with a dark meaning in his eyes.

Lane turned to Mel and led her from the house and down to the curb without speaking once.

Once more they went out into the blinding snow-storm.  Lane threw back his head and breathed the cold air.  What a relief to get out of that stifling room!

“Mel, I’m afraid it’s no use,” he said, finally.

“We are finding what the world thinks of us,” replied Mel.  “Tell the man to drive to 204 Locust Street.”

Once more the driver headed his humming car into the white storm.

Once more Lane sat silent, with his heart raging.  Once more Mel peered out into the white turmoil of gloom.

“Daren, we’re going to Dr. Wallace, my old minister.  He’ll marry us,” she said, presently.

“Why didn’t I think of him?”

“I did,” answered Mel, in a low voice.  “I know he would marry us.  He baptized me; he has known and loved me all my life.  I used to sing in his choir and taught his Sunday School for years.”

“Yet you let me go to those others.  Why?”

“Because I shrank from going to him.”

Once more the car lurched into the gutter, and this time they both got out and mounted the high steps.  Lane knocked.  They waited what appeared a long time before they heard some one fumbling with the lock.  Just then the bell in the church tower nearby began chiming the midnight hour.  The door opened, and Doctor Wallace himself admitted them.