Arthur is determined to throw any damn reporters off the scent. There is no announcement of where he and Jean are to be married; his wedding-eve dinner at the Gaiety is a discreet affair; and at St Margaret's Westminster the striped awning is put out at the very last minute. Only a few passers-by gather at this drowsy, sun-dusted corner beside the Abbey to see who might be getting married on a discreet Wednesday rather than an ostentatious Saturday.

Arthur wears a frock coat and white waistcoat, with a large white gardenia in his buttonhole. His brother Innes, on special leave from autumn manoeuvres, makes a nervous best man. Cyril Angell, husband of Arthur's youngest sister Dodo, will officiate. The Mam, whose seventieth birthday has recently been celebrated, wears grey brocade; Connie and Willie are there, and Lottie and Ida and Kingsley and Mary. Arthur's dream of gathering his family around him under one roof has never come to pass; but here, for a brief while, they are all assembled. And for once Mr Waller is not of the party.

The chancel is decorated with tall palms; groups of white flowers are arranged at their base. The service is to be fully choral, and Arthur, given his Sunday preference for golf over church, has allowed Jean to choose the hymns: 'Praise the Lord, ye Heavens adore Him' and 'O, Perfect Love, all human thought transcending'. He stands in the front pew, remembering her last words to him. 'I shall not keep you waiting, Arthur. I have made that quite clear to my father.' He knows she will be as good as her word. Some might say that since they have waited ten years for one another, an extra ten or twenty minutes will do no harm, and may even improve the drama of the event. But Jean, to his delight, is quite devoid of that supposedly appealing bridal coquetry. They are to be married at a quarter to three; therefore she will be at the church at a quarter to three. This is a sound basis for a marriage, he thinks. As he stands looking at the altar, he reflects that he does not always understand women, but he recognizes those who play with a straight bat and those who don't.

Jean Leckie arrives on the arm of her father at two forty-five precisely. She is met at the porch by her bridesmaids, Lily Loder-Symonds of spiritualist leanings, and Leslie Rose. Jean's page is Master Bransford Angell, son of Cyril and Dodo, dressed in a blue and cream silk Court suit. Jean's dress, semi-Empire style with a Princess front, is made of ivory silk Spanish lace, its designs outlined with fine pearl embroidery. The underdress is of silver tissue; the train, edged with white crepe de Chine, falls from a chiffon true-lovers' knot caught in with a horseshoe of white heather; the veil is worn over a wreath of orange blossom.

Arthur takes very little of this in as Jean arrives beside him. He is not much of a frock man, and thus perfectly complacent about the superstition that the wedding dress shall remain unglimpsed by the groom until it arrives with the bride. He thinks Jean looks damned handsome, and he has an overall impression of cream and pearls and a long train. The truth is, he would be just as happy to see her in riding clothes. He gives his responses lustily; hers are barely audible.

At the Hotel Metropole there is a grand staircase leading to the Whitehall Rooms. The train is proving an almighty nuisance; the bridesmaids and little Bransford are fussing interminably over it when Arthur becomes impatient. He sweeps his bride from her feet and carries her effortlessly up the stairs. He smells orange blossom, feels the imprint of pearls against his cheek, and hears his bride's quiet laughter for the first time that day. There is a cheer from the marriage party below and a louder, answering cheer from the reception party gathered above.

George is acutely aware that he will know no one there except Sir Arthur, whom he has met only twice, and the bride, who briefly shook his hand at the Grand Hotel, Charing Cross. He very much doubts Mr Yelverton will be invited, let alone Harry Charlesworth. He has handed in his present and declined the alcoholic drinks everyone else is holding. He looks around the Whitehall Rooms: chefs are busying themselves at a long buffet table, the Metropole orchestra is tuning up, and everywhere there are tall palm trees with ferns and foliage and clumps of white flowers at their base. More white flowers decorate the little tables set round the edge of the room.

To George's surprise and considerable relief, people come up and speak to him; they seem to know who he is, and greet him as if they are almost his familiars. Alfred Wood introduces himself, and talks of visiting Wyrley Vicarage and having had the great pleasure of meeting George's family. Mr Jerome the comic writer congratulates him on his successful fight for justice, introduces him to Miss Jerome, and points out other celebrities: J.M. Barrie over there, and Bram Stoker, and Max Pemberton. Sir Gilbert Parker, who has several times embarrassed the Home Secretary in the House of Commons, comes across to shake George's hand. George realizes that all of them are treating him as a deeply wronged man; not one of them looks at him as if he were the private author of a series of insane and obscene letters. There is nothing directly said; just an implicit assumption that he is the sort of fellow who generally understands things in the way they also generally understand things.

While the orchestra plays quietly, three basketfuls of telegrams and cables are brought in, opened, and read out by Sir Arthur's brother. Then there is food, and more champagne than George has ever seen poured in his life, and speeches and toasts, and when the bridegroom gives his speech it contains words which might as well be champagne, for they bubble up into George's brain and make him giddy with excitement.

'… and among us this afternoon I am delighted to welcome my young friend George Edalji. There is no one I am prouder to see here than him…' and faces turn towards George, and smiles are given, and glasses half-raised, and he has no idea where to look, but realizes that it doesn't matter anyway.

Bride and groom take a ceremonial turn on the dance floor, to much happy whooping, and then begin to circulate among their guests, at first together, then separately. George finds himself beside Mr Wood, who is half backed into a palm tree and has ferns up to his knees.

'Sir Arthur always advises concealment,' he says with a wink. Together they look out at the throng.

'A happy day,' George observes.

'And the end of a very long road,' replies Mr Wood.

George does not know what to make of this remark, so contents himself with a nod of agreement. 'Have you worked for Sir Arthur for many years?'

'Southsea, Norwood, Hindhead. Next stop Timbuctoo I shouldn't wonder.'

'Really?' says George. 'Is that the honeymoon destination?'

Mr Wood frowns at this, as if unable to follow the question. He takes another pull at his champagne glass. 'I understand you're keen to get married in general. Sir Arthur thinks you should get married in per-tick-er-ler.' He pronounces this last word with a staccato effect which for some reason amuses him. 'Or is that stating the obvious?'

George feels alarmed by this turn in the conversation, and also somewhat embarrassed. Mr Wood is sliding his forefinger up and down the side of his nose. 'Your sister's the nark,' he adds. 'Couldn't stand up to a pair of part-time consulting detectives.'

'Maud?'

'That's her name. Nice young lady. Quiet, nothing wrong with that. Not that I intend to marry myself, either in general, or in per-tick-er-ler.' He smiles to himself. George decides that Mr Wood is being agreeable rather than malicious. However, he suspects the fellow might be a little inebriated. 'Bit of a palaver, if you ask me. And then there's the expense.' Mr Wood waves his glass at the band, the flowers, the waiters. One of the latter takes his gesture as a command and refills his glass.