“Good-evening, Sir Roger!” cried Mr. Walraven, advancing eagerly.  “Any news of Mollie?”

He expected to hear “No,” but the baronet said “Yes.”  He was deeply agitated, and held forth, in a hand that shook, a note to Carl Walraven.

“I received that an hour ago, through the post-office.  For Heaven’s sake, read, and tell me what you think of it!”

He dropped exhausted into a chair.  Carl Walraven tore open the brief epistle, and devoured its contents: 

“SIR ROGER TRAJENNA,—­Give up your search for Mollie Dane.  It is useless; a waste of time and money.  She is safe and well, and will be at home in a week, but she will never be your wife.

“ONE WHO KNOWS.”

Mr. Walraven read and reread these brief lines, and stood and stared at Sir Roger Trajenna.

“Good heavens!  You got this through the post-office?”

“I did, an hour ago, and came here at once.  Do you believe it?”

“How can I tell?  Let us hope it may be true.  It is of a piece with the rest of the mystery.  The writing, as usual in these anonymous letters, is disguised.  Can Mollie herself be the writer?”

“Mollie!” The baronet grew fearfully pale at the bare suggestion.  “Why on earth should my affianced wife write like that?  Don’t you see it say a there, ‘She will never be your wife?’ Mollie, my bride, would never say that.”

Mr. Walraven was not so sure, but he did not say so.  He had very little faith in Miss Dane’s stability, even in a matter of this kind.

“It is the work of some enemy,” said Sir Roger, “and, as such, to be disregarded.  Like all anonymous letters, it is only worthy of contempt.”

People always say that of anonymous communications; but the anonymous communications invariably have their effect, notwithstanding.

“I will continue my search,” pursued Sir Roger, firmly.  “I will offer yet higher rewards.  I will employ still more detectives.  I will place this letter in their hands.  No stone shall be left unturned—­no money shall be spared.  If I lose Mollie, life is not worth the having.”

He rose to go.  Mr. Walraven folded up the mysterious epistle and handed it back.

“I see it is postmarked in the city.  If the writer really knows aught of Mollie, she must be nearer at hand than we imagine.  Would to Heaven the week were up.”

“Then you have faith in this?” said the baronet, looking astonished.

“I have hope, my dear sir.  It is very easy believing in what we wish to come true.  There may be something in it.  Who knows?”

The baronet shook his head.

“I wish I could think so.  I sometimes fear we will never see her again.  Poor child!  Poor little Mollie!  Heaven only knows what you may not have suffered ere this!”

“Let us not despair.  Pray, resume your seat.  I am quite alone this stormy night, Sir Roger.  Mrs. Walraven has gone to the opera.”