“I have no wish to pry into your very extraordinary secrets or escapades, Miss Dane,” he said, haughtily.  “Permit me to wish you good-evening.”

Mr. Sardonyx departed.  Mr. Walraven saw his wife safely conveyed to her room and left in charge of her maid, and then returned to the dining-room.

Mollie’s first act was to hold out both hands, with infinite grace and courtesy, to Hugh Ingelow.

“Mr. Ingelow, words are poor and weak to tell you how I thank you.  I have not deserved it from you.  I can only ask you to try and forgive me.”

The young artist lifted the fair little hands to his lips.

“I am repaid ten thousand-fold,” he said, quietly.  “I would give my life to serve you.”

“In the name of Heaven, Mollie,” cried the nearly frantic master of the house, “what does all this extraordinary mystery mean?”

“It means that a terrible crime has been committed, guardy,” Mollie replied, gravely, “and that your wife and her cousin are among the chief conspirators.  Sit down and I will tell you the whole story.  Sir Roger Trajenna, likewise.  I owe you both a full explanation.  Mr. Ingelow knows already.”

She sat down before them, and beginning at the beginning, told them the whole story—­her forced and mysterious marriage and its very unpleasant sequel.

“That I ever escaped,” she concluded, “I owe, under Providence, to Mr. Ingelow.  Guardy, I would have spared you if I could; but, you see, it was impossible.  Of course, we won’t prosecute your wife or her cousin.  I am almost satisfied, now, that I know I am not Guy Oleander’s wretched wife.”

“But, heavens above, Mollie Dane!” cried the bewildered Mr. Walraven, “whose wife are you?”

“Ah, guardy, I would give a great deal to know that.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“I suspect no one now.”

There was a shade of sadness in her tone, and her eyes wandered wistfully over to the young artist.

“Upon my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Walraven, “I never heard or read of the like.  It’s perfectly astounding.  Did you ever hear anything so extraordinary, Sir Roger?”

The baronet had been sitting like a man stunned by a blow.  Now he turned his eyes from Mollie’s for the first time, and tried to speak.

“I am utterly bewildered,” he said.  “The whole story sounds like an impossibility—­incredible as a fairy tale.”

“It is quite true, nevertheless,” said Mollie.

“And you are a wedded wife?”

“I am.”

“You’re nothing of the sort!” burst out Carl Walraven.  “You’re free—­free as air.  It would be outrageous, it would be monstrous, to let such a marriage bind you.  You are free to wed to-morrow if you choose; and let the villain come forward and dispute the marriage if he dare!”

“He speaks the truth,” said Sir Roger, eagerly.  “Such a marriage is no marriage.  You are as free as you were before, Mollie.”