"Has there been no letter, no message of any sort since?" he inquired, huskily, after a pause.

"None. No one in your household knows even where this Miriam resides. As for Mr. Ingelow, I called twice at the studio since, but each time to find it locked."

There was a tap at the door.

"Come in," said the lawyer.

And enter a waiter, with a card for Mr. Walraven. That gentleman took it with a start.

"Speak of the--Hugh Ingelow!" he muttered. "Sardonyx, I wish to see Ingelow in private. I'll drop into your office in the course of the day."

Mr. Sardonyx bowed and took his hat and his departure at once.

Mr. Ingelow and he crossed each other on the threshold.

The young artist entered, his handsome face set, and grave, and stern.

Mr. Walraven saw that cold, fixed face with a sinking heart.

"Good-morning, Ingelow," he said, trying to nod and speak indifferently.

"Take a seat and tell me the news. I've been out of town, you know."

"I know," Mr. Ingelow said, availing himself of the proffered chair only to lean lightly against it. "Thanks. No, I prefer to stand. My business will detain you but a few minutes. I come from Miss Dane."

He spoke with cold sternness. He could not forget the horrible fact that the man before him was a profligate and a murderer.

"Ah!" Carl Walraven said, with ashen lips. "She is well, I trust?"

"She is well. She desired me to give you this."

He held out the note. The hands of the millionaire shook as he tried to open it.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"She is with friends. Read that note; it explains all."

"Have you read it?" Carl Walraven asked with sudden, fierce suspicion.

"I have," answered Mr. Ingelow, calmly; "by Miss Dane's express desire."

Mr. Walraven opened the note and read it slowly to the end. His face changed from ashen gray to the livid hue of death. He lifted his eyes to the face of the young artist, and they glowed like the burning eyes of a hunted beast.

"Well?"

It was all he said, and he sent the word hissing hot and fierce from between his set teeth.

"That is all my errand here, Mr. Walraven," the young man said, his cool brown eyes looking the discovered murderer through. "I know all, and I believe all. You have been duped from first to last. Miss Dane is no child of yours, thank G.o.d!"

He raised his hand as he uttered the solemn thanksgiving, with a gesture that thrilled the guilty man through.

"Your secret is safe with her and with me," pursued Hugh Ingelow, after a pause. "You may live to the end of your life unmolested of man, for us, but you must never look upon Mollie Dane's face more."

Carl Walraven sunk down into a chair and covered his face, with a groan.

Hugh Ingelow turned to go.

"Stop!" Mr. Walraven said, hoa.r.s.ely. "What is to become of her? Are you going to marry her, Hugh Ingelow?"

"I decline answering that question, Mr. Walraven," the artist said, haughtily. "Miss Dane will be cared for--believe that. I wish you good-morning."

Mr. Ingelow was very pale when he emerged into thronged Broadway, but there was no indecision in his movements. He hailed a hack pa.s.sing, sprung in, and was driven rapidly to the east side--to the humble abode of Mrs. Slimmens.

Mollie came forth to meet him, worn and sad, and with traces of tears, but with a bright, glad light in her starry eyes at sight of him--the light of sweet young love.

"I have seen him, Mollie," he said. "I gave him your letter. You would hardly have known him, he looked so utterly aghast and confounded. He will not try to see you, I am certain. And now, my dear girl, for that other and better plan that I spoke of last evening. But first you must take a drive with me--a somewhat lengthy drive."

She looked at him wonderingly, but in no fear.

"A drive," she repeated. "Where?"

"Only to Harlem--not quite out of the world," with a smile. "The carriage is waiting. Go put on your bonnet, and come."

"It is very odd," thought Mollie.

But she obeyed implicitly, and in five minutes they were rattling along over the stony streets.

"Won't you tell me now?" the young lady asked.

"Not yet. Let the mystery develop itself as it does in a novel. Trust to me, and prepare for a great shock."

She gazed at him, utterly unable to comprehend. He was smiling, but he was strangely pale.

"It is no jest, surely," Mollie said. "It is something serious. You look as though it were."

"Heaven knows I never was more serious in my life. Don't ask any more questions now, Mollie; but if I have ever done you the slightest service, try to bear it in mind. You will need to remember it shortly, and I will stand sorely in want of all your magnanimity."

He said no more, and Mollie sat in a dazed state, but still happy, as she ever must be by his side. And on, and on, and on they rattled, and the city was left behind, and they were driving through the quiet of Harlem, green and pretty in its summery freshness.

The driver, obeying some directions of Mr. Ingelow, turned up a shady green lane ending in a high gate-way.

They entered the gate-way and drove up through a long avenue of waving trees to a square, fair mansion of gleaming white--a large wooden structure with intensely green blinds, all closely shut.

Mollie sat and looked in speechless expectation. Mr. Ingelow, volunteering no explanation, a.s.sisted her out, desired cabby to wait, opened the door with a latch-key, and ushered Mollie in.

The entrance-hall was very much like any other entrance-hall; so, likewise, was the broad stair-way; so, also, the upper landing.

It was only when Mr. Ingelow, pausing before one of the doors in the second hall, spoke, that Mollie received her first shock.

"You will enter here, Mollie, and wait. Prepare yourself for a great surprise--a terrible surprise, perhaps."