I looked carefully at the entry.  It was at the bottom of a page, and was for want of room compressed into a smaller space than that occupied by the marriages above.  The marriage immediately before it was impressed on my attention by the circumstance of the bridegroom’s Christian name being the same as my own.  The entry immediately following it (on the top of the next page) was noticeable in another way from the large space it occupied, the record in this case registering the marriages of two brothers at the same time.  The register of the marriage of Sir Felix Glyde was in no respect remarkable except for the narrowness of the space into which it was compressed at the bottom of the page.  The information about his wife was the usual information given in such cases.  She was described as “Cecilia Jane Elster, of Park-View Cottages, Knowlesbury, only daughter of the late Patrick Elster, Esq., formerly of Bath.”

I noted down these particulars in my pocket-book, feeling as I did so both doubtful and disheartened about my next proceedings.  The Secret which I had believed until this moment to be within my grasp seemed now farther from my reach than ever.

What suggestions of any mystery unexplained had arisen out of my visit to the vestry?  I saw no suggestions anywhere.  What progress had I made towards discovering the suspected stain on the reputation of Sir Percival’s mother?  The one fact I had ascertained vindicated her reputation.  Fresh doubts, fresh difficulties, fresh delays began to open before me in interminable prospect.  What was I to do next?  The one immediate resource left to me appeared to be this.  I might institute inquiries about “Miss Elster of Knowlesbury,” on the chance of advancing towards the main object of my investigation, by first discovering the secret of Mrs. Catherick’s contempt for Sir Percival’s mother.

“Have you found what you wanted, sir?” said the clerk, as I closed the register-book.

“Yes,” I replied, “but I have some inquiries still to make.  I suppose the clergyman who officiated here in the year eighteen hundred and three is no longer alive?”

“No, no, sir, he was dead three or four years before I came here, and that was as long ago as the year twenty-seven.  I got this place, sir,” persisted my talkative old friend, “through the clerk before me leaving it.  They say he was driven out of house and home by his wife—­and she’s living still down in the new town there.  I don’t know the rights of the story myself—­all I know is I got the place.  Mr. Wansborough got it for me—­the son of my old master that I was tell you of.  He’s a free pleasant gentleman as ever lived—­rides to the hounds, keeps his pointers and all that.  He’s vestry-clerk here now as his father was before him.”

“Did you not tell me your former master lived at Knowlesbury?” I asked, calling to mind the long story about the precise gentleman of the old school with which my talkative friend had wearied me before he opened the register-book.