overcoat. He smiles as he closes the door of his little bedroom at the
hotel. He goes to take the vast Wandrell mansion.

Why is his coachman so careless? After 5 o'clock already. The
bridegroom is late! He must bargain with a street jehu. But, pshaw!
where can he find a clean vehicle? He hurries along the pavement.

His own driver, approaches. "I went to the stables to put the last
touches on her. Come around to Wabash avenue and see how she shines."

It is not too late after all, and the groom will turn out of a
faultless equipage at the very moment. Ladies of experience, like Mrs.
Lockwin, notice all such things.

"In fact," says George Harpwood, "there is no other man in town whom
she could marry, even if she loved him. Might as well expect her to
marry Corkey. Poor dead Corkey!"

It is pleasant, this riding down Prairie avenue to one's wedding.

"Splendid! Splendid!" cries the ardent soldier of fortune, as the
blaze of the Wandrell mansion flashes through the plate-glass windows,
of his carriage. It is the largest private residence in the city.
"Splendid!" he repeats, and leaps out on the curb. A messenger is
hurrying away.

"Is that Esther on the portico? What an impulsive woman."

His back is towards the carriage to close the silver-mounted door. He
turns.