Outside the church door stood the three or four members of the club who,
like Doctor Wybrow, had watched the ceremony out of curiosity.
Near them was the bride's brother, waiting alone. He was evidently bent
on seeing the man whom his sister had spoken to, in broad daylight.
His bold eyes rested on the Doctor's face, with a momentary flash
of suspicion in them. The cloud suddenly cleared away; the Baron
smiled with charming courtesy, lifted his hat to his sister's friend,
and walked off.

The members constituted themselves into a club conclave on the
church steps. They began with the Baron. 'Damned ill-looking rascal!'
They went on with Montbarry. 'Is he going to take that horrid
woman with him to Ireland?' 'Not he! he can't face the tenantry;
they know about Agnes Lockwood.' 'Well, but where is he going?'
'To Scotland.' 'Does she like that?' 'It's only for a fortnight;
they come back to London, and go abroad.' 'And they will never return
to England, eh?' 'Who can tell? Did you see how she looked at Montbarry,
when she had to lift her veil at the beginning of the service?
In his place, I should have bolted. Did you see her, Doctor?'
By this time, Doctor Wybrow had remembered his patients, and had heard
enough of the club gossip. He followed the example of Baron Rivar,
and walked off.

'One step more, you see, on the way to the end,' he repeated to himself,
on his way home. 'What end?'