Kirby stepped over to the clerk.  “Do you happen to remember whether you made out any license application for a man named Cunningham any time in the past two months?” he asked.

“For a marriage license?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t think I have.  Can’t remember the name.  I was on my vacation two weeks.  Maybe it was then.  Can’t you find it in the book?”

“No.”

“Know the date?”

Kirby shook his head.

The voice of Rose, high with excitement, came from across the room. 
“Looky here.”

Her finger ran down the book, close to the binding.  A page had been cut out with a sharp penknife, so deftly that they had passed it twice without noticing.

“Who did that?” demanded the clerk angrily.

“Probably the young man who was just in here.  His name is Jack Cunningham,” Lane answered.

“What in time did he want to do that for?  If he wanted it why didn’t he take a copy?  The boss’ll give me Hail Columbia.  That’s what a fellow gets for being accommodating.”

“He did it so that we wouldn’t see it.  Is there any other record kept of the marriages?”

“Sure there is.  The preachers and the judges who perform marriages have to turn back to us the certificate within thirty days and we make a record of it.”

“Can I see that book?”

“I’ll do the lookin’,” the clerk said shortly.  “Whose marriage is it?  And what date?”

Lane gave such information as he could.  The clerk mellowed when Rose told him it was very important to her, as officials have a way of doing when charming young women smile at them.  But he found no record of any marriage of which they knew either of the contracting parties.

“Once in a while some preacher forgets to turn in his certificate,” the clerk said as he closed the book.  “Old Rankin is the worst that way.  He forgets.  You might look him up.”

Kirby slipped the clerk a dollar and turned away.  Rankin was a forlorn hope, but he and Rose walked out to a little house in the suburbs where the preacher lived.

He was a friendly, white-haired old gentleman, and he made them very much at home under the impression they had come to get married.  A slight deafness was in part responsible for this mistake.

“May I see the license?” he asked after Kirby had introduced himself and Rose.

For a moment the cattleman was puzzled.  His eye went to Rose, seeking information.  A wave of color was sweeping into her soft cheeks.  Then Lane knew why, and the hot blood mounted into his own.  His gaze hurriedly and in embarrassment fled from Miss McLean’s face.

“You don’t quite understand,” he explained to the Reverend Nicodemus Rankin.  “We’ve come only to—­to inquire about some one you married—­or rather to find out if you did marry him.  His name is Cunningham.  We have reason to think he was married a month or two ago.  But we’re not sure.”