“Well, now, that’s curious!” said the clerk, shutting up the book again, just after he had opened it, and smacking his hand cheerfully on the cover.  “Those were the very words my old master was always saying years and years ago, when I was a lad.  ’Why isn’t the register’ (meaning this register here, under my hand)—­ ‘why isn’t it kept in an iron safe?’ If I’ve heard him say that once, I’ve heard him say it a hundred times.  He was the solicitor in those days, sir, who had the appointment of vestry-clerk to this church.  A fine hearty old gentleman, and the most particular man breathing.  As long as he lived he kept a copy of this book in his office at Knowlesbury, and had it posted up regular, from time to time, to correspond with the fresh entries here.  You would hardly think it, but he had his own appointed days, once or twice in every quarter, for riding over to this church on his old white pony, to check the copy, by the register, with his own eyes and hands.  ‘How do I know?’ (he used to say) ’how do I know that the register in this vestry may not be stolen or destroyed?  Why isn’t it kept in an iron safe?  Why can’t I make other people as careful as I am myself?  Some of these days there will be an accident happen, and when the register’s lost, then the parish will find out the value of my copy.’  He used to take his pinch of snuff after that, and look about him as bold as a lord.  Ah! the like of him for doing business isn’t easy to find now.  You may go to London and not match him, even there.  Which year did you say, sir?  Eighteen hundred and what?”

“Eighteen hundred and four,” I replied, mentally resolving to give the old man no more opportunities of talking, until my examination of the register was over.

The clerk put on his spectacles, and turned over the leaves of the register, carefully wetting his finger and thumb at every third page.  “There it is, sir,” said he, with another cheerful smack on the open volume.  “There’s the year you want.”

As I was ignorant of the month in which Sir Percival was born, I began my backward search with the early part of the year.  The register-book was of the old-fashioned kind, the entries being all made on blank pages in manuscript, and the divisions which separated them being indicated by ink lines drawn across the page at the close of each entry.

I reached the beginning of the year eighteen hundred and four without encountering the marriage, and then travelled back through December eighteen hundred and three—­through November and October—­ through——­

No! not through September also.  Under the heading of that month in the year I found the marriage.