When the clerk paused in his narrative of the four gentlemen who had stopped the car to have some refreshment, Frank made a resolute stand against any fresh developments of the story, and succeeded in extracting some particulars concerning the marriage laws.  And within the next few days all formalities were completed, and Frank’s marriage fixed for the end of the week—­for Friday, at a quarter to eleven.  He slept lightly that night, was out of bed before eight, and mistaking the time, arrived at the office a few minutes before ten.  He met the old man in gray clothes in the passage, and this time he was not to be evaded.

“Are you the gentleman who’s come to be married by special license, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Neither Mr. Southey—­that is the Registrar—­nor Mr. Freeman—­that’s the Assistant-Registrar—­has yet arrived, sir.”

“It is very extraordinary they should be late.  Do they never keep their appointments?”

“They rarely arrives before ten, sir.”

“Before ten!  What time is it now?”

“Only just ten.  I am the regular attendant.  I’ll see yer through it; no necessity to hagitate yerself.  It will be done quietly in a private room—­a very nice room too, fourteen feet by ten high—­them’s the regulations; all the chairs covered with leather; a very nice comfortable room.  Would yer like to see the room?  Would yer like to sit down there and wait?  There’s a party to be married before you.  But they won’t mind you.  He’s a butcher by trade.”

“And what is she?”

“I think she’s a tailoress; they lives close by here, they do.”

“And who are you, and where do you live?”

“I’m the regular attendant; I lives close by here.”

“Where close by?”

“In the work’us; they gives me this work to do.”

“Oh, you are a pauper, then?”

“Yease; but I works here; I’m the regular attendant.  No need to be afraid, sir; it’s all done in a private room; no one will see you.  This way, sir; this way.”

The sinister aspect of things never appealed to Frank, and he was vastly amused at the idea of the pauper Mercury, and had begun to turn the subject over, seeing how he could use it for a queer story for the Pilgrim.  But time soon grew horribly long, and to kill it he volunteered to act as witness to the butcher’s marriage, one being wanted.  The effects of a jovial night, fortified by some matutinal potations, were still visible in the small black eyes of the rubicund butcher—­a huge man, apparently of cheery disposition; he swung to and fro before the shiny oak table as might one of his own carcasses.  His bride, a small-featured woman, wrapped in a plaid shawl, evidently fearing that his state, if perceived by the Registrar, might cause a postponement of her wishes, strove to shield him.  His pal and a stout girl, with the air of the coffee-shop about her, exchanged winks and grins, and at the critical moment, when the