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 God!”

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, hoarsely.  “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.”