"Eh?"

"She is not!" reiterated Miriam. "I have just been there. They are in the utmost alarm and distress--at least, Mr. Walraven appears to be.

Mollie has again disappeared."

"By Jove!" cried Mr. Ingelow, in dismay.

"She left the house late last night. One of the servants, it appears, saw her go, and she has never been heard of or seen since."

"By Jove!" for the second time exclaimed Hugh Ingelow.

"It is supposed that she has met with foul play--been inveigled away from home, and is in the power of a villain."

"Well," said Mr. Ingelow, drawing a long breath, "Miss Dane has the greatest knack of causing sensations of any lady I ever knew. Pray, are you aware this is the second time such a thing has happened?"

"I am quite aware of it. Also, that she went against her will."

"Indeed! Being so near a relative, it is natural you should be posted.

And now, may I beg to know," said the young man, with cool politeness, "why you do me the honor to come and inform me?"

Miriam looked at him with her eagle glance--keen, side-long, searching.

Mr. Ingelow made her a slight bow.

"Well, madame?" smiling carelessly.

"Do you not know?"

"I?"--a broad stare. "Really, madame, I am at a loss--How should I know?"

"Did you not meet Mollie last night at the corner of Broadway and Fourteenth Street?"

"Most certainly not."

"Where were you at ten o'clock last evening?"

Again Mr. Ingelow smiled.

"Really, a raking cross-examination. Permit me to decline answering that question."

"And you know nothing of Mollie's previous disappearance--of that mysterious fortnight?"

"My good woman, be reasonable. I'm not an astrologer, nor a wizard, nor yet a clairvoyant. I'm not in Miss Dane's confidence. I put it to yourself--how should I know?"

"You shuffle--you equivocate!" cried Miriam, impatiently. "Why don't you answer at once--yes or no?"

"My dear lady," with a deprecating wave of his shapely hand, "don't be so dreadfully blunt. Pray tell me of what you accuse me--of forcibly abducting Miss Dane last night at ten o'clock? With my hand on my heart, madame, on the word of a man and brother--on the honor of an artist--I solemnly a.s.severate I didn't do it!"

Miriam groaned.

"Then what has become of that unfortunate child? She thought it was you, or she never would have gone."

The fair, refined face of the artist flushed deep red, and he was grave in an instant.

"Madame, what do you say?"

"Oh, you know!" cried the woman, vehemently. "You surely know, else all you men are blinder than bats. You know she loved you well."

"Oh, madame!"

The young man caught his breath.

"She told me so herself," cried Miriam, recklessly betraying this, and wringing her hands; "and she went last night, hoping it was you."

The momentary expression of rapture had quite faded out of Mr. Ingelow's face by this time, and, leaning against his easel, he was listening with cool attention. But if Miriam could have known how this man's heart was plunging against his ribs!

"I think there is a mistake somewhere," said Hugh, with _sang-froid_.

"Miss Dane refused me."

"Bah!" said Miriam, with infinite scorn; "much you know of women, to take that for a test! But it isn't to talk of love I came here. I am half distracted. The child has met with foul play, I am certain, since you are here."

"Will you have the goodness to explain, my good woman," said Mr.

Ingelow, beseechingly. "Consider, I am all in the dark."

"And I can not enlighten you without telling you the whole story, and if you are not the hero of it, I have no right, and no wish, to do that.

One question I will ask you," fixing her powerful eyes on his face: "Do you still love Mollie Dane?"

Mr. Ingelow smiled serene as the sunset sky outside.

"A point-blank question. Forgive me if I decline answering it."

Miriam's eyes flashed fire.

"You never cared for her!" she said, in fierce impatience. "You are a poltroon and a carpet-knight, like the rest--ready with plenty of fine words, and nothing else! You asked her to marry you, and you don't care whether she is living or dead!"

"Why should I?" said Mr. Ingelow, coolly. "She refused to marry me."

"And with a flighty girl's refusal your profound, and lasting, and all enduring love dies out, like a dip-candle under an extinguisher! Oh, you are all alike--all alike! Selfish, and mean, and cruel, and false, and fickle to the very heart's core!"

"Hard words," said Mr. Ingelow, with infinite calm. "You make sweeping a.s.sertions, madame, but there is just a possibility of your being mistaken, after all."

"Words, words, words!" Miriam cried, bitterly. "Words in plenty, but no actions! I wish my tongue had been palsied ere I uttered what I have uttered within this hour!"

"My dear madame, softly, softly! Pray, pray do not be so impetuous.

Don't jump at such frantic conclusions! I a.s.sure you, my words are not empty sound. I mean 'em, every one. I'll do anything in reason for you or your charming niece."

"In reason!" said the woman, with a scornful laugh. "Oh, no doubt!

You'll take, exceeding good care to be calm and reasonable, and weigh the pros and cons, and not get yourself into trouble to deliver the girl you wanted to marry the other day from captivity--from death, perhaps!

She refused you, and that is quite sufficient."

"Now, now!" cried Mr. Ingelow, appealing to the four walls in desperation. "Did ever mortal man hear the like of this?