The oppressive silence lasted until Mrs. Sharpe re-entered with some needle-work.  Then Mr. Ingelow rose and looked at his watch.

“I believe I’ll take a stroll down Broadway,” he said, a little coldly.  “Your friend Miriam will probably be here before I return.  If not, there are books yonder with which to beguile the time.”

Mollie bowed, proudly silent, and Mr. Ingelow left the room for his morning constitutional.  Miss Dane walked over, took a book, opened it, and held it before her face a full hour without turning a leaf.  The face it screened looked darkly bitter and overcast.  She was free from prison, only to find herself in a worse captivity—­fettered by a love that could meet with no return.

The bright morning wore on; noon came.  Two o’clock brought dinner and Mr. Ingelow, breezy from his walk.

“What!” he exclaimed, looking round, “no Miriam?”

“No Miriam,” said Mollie, laying down her book.  “Mrs. Sharpe and I have been quite alone—­she sewing, I reading.”

Mrs. Sharpe smiled to herself.  She had been watching the young lady, and surmised how much she had read.

“Why, that’s odd, too,” Mr. Ingelow said.  “She promised to be here this morning, and Miriam keeps her promises, I think.  However, the afternoon may bring her.  And now for dinner, mesdames.”

But the afternoon did not bring her.  The hours wore on—­Mr. Ingelow at his easel, Mollie with her book, Susan Sharpe with her needle, conversation desultory and lagging.

Since the morning a restraint had fallen between the knight-errant and the rescued lady—­a restraint Mollie saw clearly enough, but could not properly understand.

Evening came.  Twilight, hazy and blue, fell like a silvery veil over the city, and the street-lamps twinkled through it like stars.

Mr. Ingelow in an inner room had made his toilet, and stood before Mollie, hat in hand, ready to depart for the Walraven mansion.

“Remain here another half hour,” he was saying; “then follow and strike the conspirators dumb.  It will be better than a melodrama.  I saw Oleander to-day, and I know information of your escape has not yet reached him.  You had better enter the house by the most private entrance, so that, all unknown, you can appear before us and scare us out of a year’s growth.”

“I know how to get in,” said Mollie.  “Trust me to play my part.”

Mr. Ingelow departed, full of delightful anticipations of the fun to come.  He found all the guests assembled before him.  It was quite a select little family party, and Mr. Walraven and Sir Roger Trajenna were in a state of despondent gloom that had become chronic of late.

Mollie, the apple of their eye, their treasure, their darling, was not present, and the whole universe held nothing to compensate them for her loss.

Mrs. Walraven, superbly attired, and looking more like Queen Cleopatra than ever, with, a circlet of red gold in her blue-black hair, and her polished shoulders and arms gleaming like ivory against bronze in her golden-brown silk, presided like an empress.  She was quite radiant to-night, and so was Dr. Guy.  All their plans had succeeded admirably.  Mollie was absolutely in their power.  This time to-morrow scores of broad sea miles would roll between her and New York.