“What comes next?” she asked.  “After breakfast—­what then?”

“That is for Mistress Mollie to decide.”

“I am not to go home until this evening?”

“Not if you wish to give unlucky Oleander his coup de gráce.  Poor devil!  I pity him, too.  If you intend to make your entree like the ghost of Banquo at the feast, you can’t appear, of course, until evening.”

“Must I stay here all day?”

“Will it be so very hard?” with an eloquent glance.  “I shall be here.”

“No, no!” Mollie said, hastily, blushing and laughing.  “It would be light penance, in any case; to spend a day here, after a fortnight down yonder.  What I mean is, I might improve the time by going to see Miriam.”

“If you wait, Miriam may improve the time by coming to see you.”

“No!  What does she know about your studio?”

“Heaps!” said Mr. Ingelow, coolly.  “It isn’t the first time ladies have come to my studio.”

“I know; but Miriam—­”

“It isn’t the first time for Miriam, either.”

Mollie opened wide her eyes.

“I protest, Mr. Ingelow, I didn’t know you were acquainted with her at all.”

“Which proves you are not au fait of all my lady acquaintances.  But, to solve the riddle, it was Miriam who first came here and put me on your track.”

The blue eyes opened wider.

“You see,” said Mr. Ingelow, with the air of one entering upon a story, “she knew about your appointment that night, and was at the place of rendezvous, all silent and unseen.  She saw you go off in the carriage with that man, and took it into her head that something was wrong.  She called at Mr. Walraven’s that day, and found you were missing—­no tale nor tidings to be had of you.  Then, what does she do but come to me?”

Mr. Ingelow looked full at the young lady as he spoke, and once more Mollie was silly enough to blush.

“I really don’t know how it was,” pursued Mr. Ingelow, with provoking deliberation, “but Madame Miriam had taken it into her head that I was the man you had gone to meet.  Extraordinary, wasn’t it?  She thought so, however, and was taken all aback to find me quietly painting here.”

Mollie did not dare to look up.  All her saucy insouciance was gone.  Her face was burning.  She felt as though it would be an infinite relief to sink through the floor.  The floor not being practicable for the purpose, she stole a look at Mrs. Sharpe; but Mrs. Sharpe sat with the face of a wooden figure-head, intent on the business of eating and drinking.

“Miriam and I had a long and confidential talk,” the young artist continued, “and came to the conclusion that Doctor Oleander was at the bottom of the matter, and that, wherever you were, you were an unwilling prisoner.  Of course, to a gentleman of my knight-errantry, that was sufficient to fire my blood.  I put lance in rest, buckled on my armor, mounted my prancing charger, and set off to the ogre’s castle to rescue the captive maiden!  And for the rest, you know it.  I came, I saw, I conquered—­Doctor Oleander!”