She laughed lightly, and drew her opera-cloak up over her superb bare shoulders.  Mr. Walraven’s darkest scowl did not intimidate her in the least.

“Leave the room, madame!” ordered her husband, authoritatively; “and take you care that I don’t assert my right and compel you to obey me, before long.”

“Compel!” It was such a good joke that Mrs. Blanche’s silvery laugh rang through the apartment.  “You compelled me once, against my will, when you took your ward with you on your wedding-tour.  I don’t think it will ever happen again, Mr. Walraven.  And now, how do you like my dress?  I came in expressly to ask you, for the carriage waits.”

“Leave the room!” cried Carl Walraven, in a voice of thunder.  “Be gone!”

“You are violent,” said Blanche, with a provoking shrug and smile, but prudently retreating.  “You forget your voice may be heard beyond this room.  Since you lost your ward you appear also to have lost your temper—­never of the best, I must say.  Well, my love, by-bye for the present.  Don’t quite wear out the carpet before I return.”

With the last sneer and a sweeping bow, the lady quitted the library.  As she closed the door, the house-bell rang violently.

“The devoted baronet, no doubt,” she said to herself, with an unpleasant smile; “come to condole with his brother in affliction.  Poor old noodle!  Truly, a fool of forty will never be wise!  A fool of seventy, in his case.”

One of the tall footmen opened the door.  But it was not the stately baronet.  The footman recoiled with a little yelp of terror—­he had admitted this visitor before.  A gaunt and haggard woman, clad in rags, soaking with rain—­a wretched object as ever the sun shone on.

“Is Carl Walraven within?” demanded this grisly apparition, striding in and confronting the tottering footman with blazing black eyes.  “Tell him Miriam is here.”

The footman recoiled further with another feeble yelp, and Blanche Walraven haughtily and angrily faced the intruder.

“Who are you?”

The blazing eyes burning in hollow sockets turned upon the glittering, perfumed vision.

“Who am I?  What would you give to know?  Who are you?  Carl Walraven’s wife, I suppose.  His wife!  Ha! ha!” she laughed—­a weird, blood-curdling laugh.  “I wish you joy of your husband, most magnificent madame!  Tell me, fellow,” turning with sudden fierceness upon the dismayed understrapper, “is your master at home?”

“Y-e-e-s!  That is, I think so, ma’am.”

“Go and tell him to come here, then.  Go, or I’ll—­”

The dreadful object made one stride toward the lofty servitor, who turned and fled toward the library.

But Mr. Walraven had heard loud and angry voices, and at this moment the door opened and he appeared on the threshold.

“What is this?” he demanded, angrily.  “What the deuce do you mean, Wilson, wrangling in the hall?  Not gone yet, Blanche?  Good Heaven!  Miriam!”