"Yes, yes! I remember. Go on. How did Miriam come to be with Mollie, and who the mischief is Miriam?"

"Her aunt."

"Her aunt?"

"Her mother's sister--yes. Her mother's name was Dane. Who that mother was," said Mrs. Walraven, with spiteful emphasis, "I fancy Mr. Walraven could tell you."

"Ah!" said her cousin, with a side-long glance, "I shouldn't wonder. I'll not ask him, however. Proceed."

"I took to reading a novel after I came home," proceeded Mrs. Walraven, "and my husband went to bed. I remained with my book in the drawing-room, very much interested, until nearly midnight. I fancied all in the house had retired; therefore, when I heard a soft rustling of silk swishing past the drawing-room door, I was considerably surprised. An instant later, and the house door was softly unfastened. I turned the handle noiselessly and peeped out. There, in her pink dinner toilet, jewels and all, was Miss Dane, stealing upstairs, and following her, this wretched, ragged creature, Miriam."

"Well?" said the doctor.

"Well, I followed. They entered Miss Dane's chamber and closed the door.

The temptation was strong, the spirit willing, and the flesh weak. I crouched at the key-hole and listened. It was a very long conversation--it was fully three o'clock before Miriam departed--but it held me spell-bound with its interest from beginning to end. Once I was nearly caught--I sneezed. I vanished behind a big cabinet, and just saved myself, for they opened the door. Mollie set it down to the wind, or the rats, closed the door again, and my curiosity overcoming my fear of detection, I crept back and heard every word."

"Well?" again said the doctor.

"Well, Mollie made a clean breast of it. On her wedding-night she was enticed from the house by a letter purporting to come from this Miriam.

The letter told her that Miriam was dying, and that she wished to make a revelation of her parentage to Mollie, before she departed for a worse land. It seems she knows Miss Dane's antecedents, and Miss Dane doesn't.

Mollie went at once, as the Reverend Raymond Rashleigh did, and, like him, was blindfolded and bound, borne away to some unknown house, n.o.body knows where, waited on by the girl who carried the letter, and held a fast prisoner by a man in a black mask. That man's face Mollie never saw, nor has she the least idea of whom it may be. She is inclined to suspect you."

"Me!"

The doctor's stare of astonishment was a sight to behold.

"It is you, or Sardonyx, or Ingelow--one of you three, Mollie is certain. The particular one she can't decide. She dreads it may be either the lawyer or the doctor, and hopes, with all her heart, it may be the artist."

Dr. Oleander's swarthy brows knit with a midnight scowl.

"She is in love with this puppy, Ingelow. I have thought as much for some time."

"Hopelessly in love with him, and perfectly willing to be his wife, if he proves to be her husband. Should it chance to be you, she will administer a dose of strychnine the first available opportunity."

"She said that, did she?"

"That, and much more. She hates, detests, and abhors you, and loves the handsome artist with all her heart."

"The little jade! And how about her elderly admirer?"

"Sir Roger? Oh! he is to get the go-by. 'Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.' He will stand the blow. 'All for love, and the world well lost,' is to be her motto for the future. She is in love with Hugh, and Hugh she must have. The spoiled baby is tired of all its old toys, and wants a new one."

"And she married this masked man, and never saw him? That is odd."

"The whole affair is excessively odd. You know how impatient she naturally is. She grew desperate in her confinement in a few days, and was ready to sell her birthright for a mess of pottage--ready to sacrifice her freedom in one way for her freedom in another. She had the man's promise that he would return her to her friends a week after she became his wife. She married him, and he kept his promise."

"And he never let her see his face?"

"Never! and she can not even suspect who it is. He wore a long, disguising cloak that concealed his figure, false beard and hair, and spoke only French. But she hopes it may be Hugh Ingelow. What do you think?"

"That is not Hugh Ingelow. The fellow hasn't energy enough to entrap a fly."

"Sardonyx, then?"

"Sardonyx is too cautious. He knows too much of the law to run his head into the lion's jaws. Besides, it is too absurdly romantic for so practical a man. No, it is not Sardonyx."

"Yourself, then?"

The doctor laughed.

"Nonsense, Blanche! Mollie is out of her reckoning about us three. By the bye, I see now through those queer advertis.e.m.e.nts that have appeared in the 'Herald' of late. Black Mask--White Mask."

"Yes; Mollie wants to find out whom she has espoused. By Miriam's advice, she inserted that first advertis.e.m.e.nt to Black Mask. He, as you perceive, replies in to-day's edition."

"And she is to meet him to-morrow night."

"Exactly; and will, unless you forestall him."

"How?"

"Don't be stupid, pray. What is to hinder you from being at the place of rendezvous first and playing Black Mask?"

"I beg your pardon; I am stupid still. Black Mask will be there himself."

"Look here: ten is the hour. Toward evening I will advance every time-piece in the house, Mollie's watch included, half an hour. She will be at the place of tryst at half past nine. Be you there, likewise--cloaked, bearded, bewigged. Have a carriage in waiting.

Make her think you are Hugh Ingelow, and she will enter it without hesitation. Speak French. She will not recognize your voice. Once in the carriage, carry her off."

"Where?" asked the doctor, astonished at the rapidity of all this.

"To Long Island--to the farm. She will be as safe there as in Sing Sing.

Make her think you are her unknown husband. It will be easily done, for she half thinks it now. Only--look out for the strychnine!"

The doctor rose to his feet, his sallow face flushed, his small black eyes sparkling.

"By Jove! Blanche, what a plotter you are! I'll do it, as sure as my name's Guy. I love the little witch to madness, and I owe her one for the way she jilted me. I'll do it, by thunder!"

"Very well," said Mrs. Walraven, quietly. "Don't get excited, and don't make a noise. I knew you would."

"But what will the old lady say?"

"Who cares for the old lady?" retorted Mme. Blanche, contemptuously.

"Not you, I hope. Tell her it's an insane patient you have brought to her for quiet and sea air. Judy is a regular dragon, and the old woman is as keen as a ferret and as sly as a female fox. Mollie won't escape from them. She may yield, if she really is convinced you are her husband. Tell her you love her to distraction--can't live without her, and so on. She may yield. Who knows? These girls are bundles of inconsistencies, and Mollie Dane the most inconsistent of the tribe.

Have the ceremony performed over again before witnesses, and bring her back here in a month--Mrs. Guy Oleander! Even if she won't consent from pity for your state, she may to escape from that dreary Long Island farm. She did once before, you know, and may again. That is all I have to suggest, Guy. The rest is with yourself. In the vocabulary of great men, there is no such word as fail."

She rose up. Dr. Oleander grasped her hand in an outburst of enthusiastic grat.i.tude.

"Blanche, you're a brick--a trump--a jewel beyond price! I don't know how to thank you. You're a woman of genius--a wife for a Talleyrand!"

"Thanks. Let me be able to return the compliment. I ask no more. Let me see how cleverly you will carry off pretty Mollie. I never want to see her under this roof again."