“I must continue to blame it all on the nice old ladies,” he told himself, smiling at the shamed zest he was finding in this hunt.  “But I hope this knight-errantry will not grow to be a habit with me.  I mustn’t forget that I have another job on hand for nine o’clock—­also knight-errantry!”

He paused under the dim light where his men had disappeared and looked at his cheap watch.

Twenty-five minutes of nine!

Then he heard a woman’s protesting voice.  She cried “No, no, NO!” in crescendo.

He gazed at the house from which the voice seemed to come.  It was near at hand, a shabby little cottage with a thin slice of yard closed in by a dilapidated picket fence.  He perceived no observers in the alley, and he stepped into the yard.  The front windows were open, for the evening was warm, but no lights were visible in the house.

He heard the protesting cry again.  It was more earnest.

He head the rumble of a man’s voice, but could not catch the words.  Whatever was happening was taking place in some rear room.

“No, I say, no!  Unlock that door,” cried the voice, passionately.

Farr troubled his mind no longer with quixotic considerations about intrusion.  He hoisted himself over the window-sill into the darkened front room, passed down a short corridor and, when he heard the voice once again on the inside of a door which he found locked, he immediately kicked the door open.  He appeared to those in the room, heralded by an amazing crash and flying splinters.

First of all, he was astonished to find two women there; one was Miss Kilgour and the other was her mother.  And there were the two men whom he had followed.

Farr swept off his hat and addressed the girl.

“I happened to be passing and heard your voice,” he said.  “If you are—­” He hesitated, a bit confused, realizing all at once that knight-errantry in modern days is not quite as free and easy a matter as it used to be when damsels were in distress in the ruder times of yore.  “I am at your service,” he added, a bit curtly.

But she did not reply.  Her attitude was tense, her cheeks were flaming, her eyes were like glowing coals.

“You lunatic, you have come slamming in here, disturbing a private wedding,” announced the man in the white tie, slapping his palm upon the book he carried.

“Get out of here!” shouted Dodd.  He had dodged into a corner of the room, his face whitening, when Farr had burst in.  He remained in the corner now, brandishing his cane.

The uninvited guest surveyed the young man with more composure than he had been able to command when he looked at the girl.

Etienne Provancher had fortified him with some valuable information.

“Mr. Richard Dodd, I’ll apologize and walk out of here after you have explained to me why you have faked up into a parson one Dennis Burke, late of the state prison, to officiate at weddings.”