"'MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:--"Lord Backwater tells me that I

may place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I

have determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you

in reference to the very painful event which has occurred in

connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is

acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no

objection to your cooperation, and that he even thinks that

it might be of some assistance. I will call at four o'clock in

the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that

time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of

paramount importance. Yours faithfully, ST. SIMON.'

"It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen,

and the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink

upon the outer side of his right little finger," remarked Holmes

as he folded up the epistle.

"He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an

hour."

"Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon

the subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in

their order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client

is." He picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of

reference beside the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he, sitting

down and flattening it out upon his knee. "Lord Robert Walsingham

de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral. Hum! Arms:

Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.

He's forty-one years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was

Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The

Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs.

They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on

the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in

all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something

more solid."

"I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I,

"for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as

remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew

that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the

intrusion of other matters."

"Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square

furniture van. That is quite cleared up now--though, indeed, it

was obvious from the first. Pray give me the results of your

newspaper selections."

"Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal

column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks

back: 'A marriage has been arranged,' it says, 'and will, if

rumour is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert

St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty

Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San

Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.' That is all."

"Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his long,

thin legs towards the fire.

"There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society

papers of the same week. Ah, here it is: 'There will soon be a

call for protection in the marriage market, for the present

free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against our home

product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great

Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across

the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the last

week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by

these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself

for over twenty years proof against the little god's arrows, has

now definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty

Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss

Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much

attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only child,

and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to

considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the

future. As it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has

been compelled to sell his pictures within the last few years,

and as Lord St. Simon has no property of his own save the small

estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the Californian heiress

is not the only gainer by an alliance which will enable her to

make the easy and common transition from a Republican lady to a

British peeress.'"

"Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning.

"Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning Post

to say that the mariage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it

would be at St. George's, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen

intimate friends would be invited, and that the party would

return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been

taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later--that is, on

Wednesday last--there is a curt announcement that the wedding had

taken place, and that the honeymoon would be passed at Lord

Backwater's place, near Petersfield. Those are all the notices

which appeared before the disappearance of the bride."

"Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start.

"The vanishing of the lady."

"When did she vanish, then?"

"At the wedding breakfast."

"Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite

dramatic, in fact."

"Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common."

"They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during

the honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt

as this. Pray let me have the details."

"I warn you that they are very incomplete."

"Perhaps we may make them less so."