“Is the marriage over?” he screamed.
“There’s no marriage this morning. It’s put off!”
“For the ring?”
“No, for the bride; she never came!”
“Never came?”
But the woman had been robbed of her fees, and the loss involved that of her temper. “Better go to the Pulteney Hotel if you want to know more,” said she, and four wheels would have locked in the mad whirl with which Tom turned curricle and horses.
Over the bridge to O’Connell Street; a vehicle was ahead of them at the Pulteney, a waiter spoke to the occupants, and it drove off without one of them getting out. Meanwhile Tom had seen the Fawcetts in the gaping crowd outside; had left them on guard over the curricle and Wyeth, and himself rushed into the hotel.
“There’s no wedding; the guests are being sent away,” said a waiter, standing in his path.
“Where’s Mr. Daintree?”
“In the ball-room, but there’s a gentleman—”
Tom hurled him on one side, and was in the ball-room himself next instant. It was a spacious saloon, the best in Sydney at that time, and the first thing Tom saw was the long table with the vista of silver and glass leading to a snow-clad mountain of a wedding-cake at the far end. The chairs were empty, the table untouched, and only two men were in the room: the bridegroom in his marriage garments, and a person of equal stature, in top-boots and a pea-jacket, whose face Tom could not see. Next moment Nicholas Harding turned his head. It was to him Daintree had drunk in the grey dawn that seemed a year ago.
The ruddy hair was shot with silver, the massive face
