Fessenden Comes
It was about nine o’clock the next morning when Rob Fessenden rang the bell of the Van Norman house. Having heard nothing of the events of the night, he had called to offer any assistance he might give before the ceremony.
The trailing garland of white flowers with fluttering streamers of white ribbon that hung beside the portal struck a chill to his heart.
“What can have happened?” he thought blankly, and confused ideas of motor accidents were thronging his mind as the door was opened for him. The demeanor of the footman at once told him that he was in a house of mourning. Shown into the drawing-room, he was met by Cicely Dupuy.
“ Mr. Fessenden!” she exclaimed as she greeted him. “Then you have not heard?”