Frank hurried away, and had a long talk with a charwoman whom he discovered in the desert of the chairs.  She thought the office was situated somewhere in a region unknown to Frank, which she called St. George-of-the-Fields; her daughter, who had been shamefully deserted, had been married there.  The parson, she thought, would know, and she gave him his address.

The heat was intolerable!  There were few people in the streets.  The perspiration collected under his hat, and his feet ached so in his patent leather shoes that he was tempted to walk after the water-cart and bathe them in the sparkling shower.  Several hansoms passed, but they were engaged.  Nor was the parson at home.  The maid-servant sniggered, but having some sympathy with what she discovered was his mission, summoned the housekeeper, who eyed him askance, and directed him to Bloomsbury; and after a descent into a grocer’s shop, and an adventure which ended in an angry altercation in a servants’ registry office, he was driven to a large building which adjoined the parish infirmary and workhouse.

Even there he was forced to make inquiries, so numerous and various were the offices.  At last an old man in gray clothes declared himself the registrar’s attendant, and offered to show him the way; but seeing himself now within range of his desire, he distanced the old chap up the four flights of stairs, and arrived wholly out of breath before the brass railing which guarded the hymeneal documents.  A clerk as slow of intellect as the first, and even more somnolent, approached and leaned over the counter.

Feeling now quite familiar with a registrar’s office, Frank explained his business successfully.  The fat clerk, whose red nose had sprouted into many knobs, balanced himself leisurely, evidently giving little heed to what was said; but the broadness of the brogue saved Frank from losing his temper.

“What part of Oireland do ye come from?  Is it Tipperary?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so; Cashel, I’m thinking.”

“Yes; do you come from there?”

“To be sure I do.  I knew you when you were a boy; and is his lordship in good health?”

Frank replied that Lord Mount Rorke was in excellent health, and feeling himself obliged to be civil, he asked the clerk his name, and how long it was since he had been in Ireland.

“Well, this is odd,” the clerk began, and then in an irritating undertone Mr. Scanlon proceeded to tell how he and four others were driving through Portarlington to take the train to Dublin, when one of them, Michael Carey he thought it was, proposed to stop the car and have some refreshment at the Royal Hotel.

Frank tried several times to return to the question of the license, but the imperturbable clerk was not to be checked.

“I was just telling you,” he interposed.

It seemed hard luck that he should find a native of Cashel in the Pimlico registrar’s office.  He had intended to keep his marriage a secret, as did Willy Brookes, and for a moment the new danger thrilled him.  It was intolerable to have to put up with this creature’s idle loquacity, but not wishing to offend him he endured it a little longer.