"You have the registers--the parish papers?
Where are they?
Here ?" Whitmore nodded towards a door in the corner.
"Is the licence for this marriage among them?
Give me the key." The curate seemed to search in his pocket for a moment; then jerked a hand towards the door, as if meaning that no key was necessary.
The Rector strode across to search.
"By God, it shall be remedied!" Mr.Rogers shouted.

"Rector!" The old man turned.
"Well ?" he asked.
"You can marry them yet ?" "To be sure I can.

And if the licence is in order, little time need be lost.

Let me search for it." "Man, there's no time to lose! The North Wilts Regiment sails to-morrow night for Portugal.

I heard the news as I left Plymouth." "If that's so," I put in, "Plinlimmon will be down at the cottage to-night, or to-morrow morning to say good-bye." "Are you sure of that ?" "Sure," said I.