* * * * *

In the house they were waiting for Gloria.  The little grey man whom they called “judge,” and who had a way of clearing his throat before and after the most trifling remark, went up and down with his hands under his coat-tails, peering near-sightedly at pictures and books and wall-paper.

“Quite a tidy little place Ben Gaynor’s got here,” he said patronizingly.  “Quite a tidy little place.”

Gratton paced back and forth, whirling always abreast of the stairs, looking up expectantly.  Steve Jarrold, the man whom Gloria had heard laugh, never budged from the spot where he had landed when entering the living-room; his wide, spraddled legs seemed rooted through the big feet into the floor.  Big-framed and bony, with startlingly black restless eyes and a three or four days’ growth of wiry beard no less lustrously black, he was ragged, unkempt, and unthinkably dirty.  His eyes roved all about the room; they came back to Gratton, sped up the steps, came back to Gratton with a leer in them, and all the while he turned and turned his black dusty hat like a man doing a job he was being paid for.

At last, since no delay holds back for ever the rolling of the great wheels of time, Gloria came.  Slowly she descended the stairs, one hand at her breast, one gripping the banister.  Her pallor was so great that her lips, though pale also, looked unnaturally red in contrast.  They were just a little apart; she seemed to breathe with difficulty.  Her eyes, glancing wildly about the room and at the men to be seen in the hallway, were the eyes of one in a trap, seeking frantically for escape, knowing that there was no escape.  Her brain, like one’s in a fever, was quick to impressions, alive with broken fragments of thought like so many flashes of vari-coloured light.  She noted trifles; she saw a painting over Gratton’s head—­a seascape her father had given her for her fourteenth birthday.  She saw three pairs of eyes staring at her, men’s eyes, to her the eyes of wild animals; she read as clearly as if their messages had been in large, printed letters what lay in the mind of each:  in the little grey man’s, the judge’s, speculation; in Steve Jarrold’s, the jeers of a man of Jarrold’s type at such a moment when they fall upon the bride; in Gratton’s, quickened desire of her and triumphant cunning.

“My dear,” said Gratton, coming forward as though to meet her and then pausing abruptly and holding back, “this is Judge—­Judge Summerling.  He will—­perform the ceremony, you know.  And this is Mr. Jarrold.  He brought the judge and will be a witness.”

Gloria from the last step regarded the three men as a prisoner might have looked upon jailers coming to drag her to execution.  Her lips moved but no sound issued.  “Judge” Summerling bowed stiffly and cleared his throat.  Steve Jarrold’s hat ceased revolving an instant, then fairly spun as though to make up for lost time.