It was lighted by a cluster of gas-jets, and the piano, the arm-chairs, the sofas, the tables, the pictures, were all very handsome and very common, indeed.
Ten minutes elapsed.

The commonplace, everyday look of the mysterious room did more toward reassuring the trembling prelate than all the masked man's words.
The door opened, and the masked man stalked in again, this time with a lady hanging on his arm.
The lady was small and slender, robed in flowing white silk; a rich veil of rare lace falling over her from head to foot like a cloud; a wreath of orange-blossoms on her fair head; jewels sparkling about her--everything just as it should be, save that, the face was hidden.

A mask of white silk, giving her a corpse-like and ghastly look, covered it from forehead to chin.
The very respectable young woman who had inveigled him out of his study, and a slouchy-looking young man followed, and took their places behind the masked pair.
"Begin," authoritatively commanded the bridegroom.
The Reverend Raymond Rashleigh stood up.

It was a wild and lawless proceeding, and all wrong; but life is sweet to portly prelates of sixty, and he stood up and began at once.
Mr.Rashleigh needed no book--he knew the marriage service as pat as his prayers.

The ring was at hand; the questions were asked; the responses made.
In five minutes the two masks were man and wife.
"Make out a certificate of marriage," said the bridegroom; "these two people will be witnesses.