“My opinion exactly!  Couldn’t possibly be Miss Dane’s own writing, could it?” once more with his spectral smile.

“Sir!” cried the baronet, reddening angrily.

“I beg your pardon.  But look at the case dispassionately, Sir Roger.  My previous impression that Miss Dane was not forcibly abducted is continued by the strange manner of her return.”

“Mine also,” chimed in Lawyer Sardonyx.

“Suppose we all postpone forming an opinion on the subject,” said the lazy voice of the young artist, “until to-morrow, and allow Miss Dane, when the has recovered from her present fatigue and hunger, to explain for herself.”

“Thanks, Ingelow”—­Mr. Walraven turned a grateful glance upon the lounging artist—­“and, meantime, gentlemen, let us adjourn to the drawing-room.  Standing talking here I don’t admire.”

He led the way; the others followed—­Sir Roger last of all, lost in a maze of bewilderment that utterly spoiled his joy at his bride’s return.

“What can it mean?  What can it mean?” he kept perpetually asking himself.  “What is all this mystery?  Surely—­surely it can not be as these men say!  Mollie can not have gone off of herself!”

It was rather dull the remainder of the evening.  The guests took their departure early.  Sir Roger lingered behind the rest, and when alone with him the master of the house summoned Lucy.  That handmaiden appeared, her eyes dancing with delight in her head.

“Where is your mistress, Lucy?” Mr. Walraven asked.

“Gone to bed, sir,” said Lucy, promptly.

“You brought her up supper?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Nothing much, sir, only that she was famished, and jolted to death in that old carriage; and then she turned me out, saying she felt as though she could sleep a week.”

“Nothing more?”

“Nothing more, sir.”

Lucy was dismissed.

Mr. Walraven turned to the baronet sympathizingly.

“I feel as deeply mystified and distressed about this matter as even you can do, my dear Sir Roger; but you perceive there is nothing for it but to wait.  Oleander was right this evening when he said the rules that measure other women fail with Mollie.  She is an original, and we must be content to bide her time.  Come early to-morrow—­come to breakfast—­and doubtless all will be explained to our satisfaction.”

And so Mr. Walraven thought, and he fancied he understood Mollie pretty well; but even Mr. Walraven did not know the depth of aggravation his flighty ward was capable of.

Sir Roger did come early on the morrow—­ridiculously early, Mrs. Carl said, sharply; but then Mrs. Carl was exasperated beyond everything at Mollie presuming to return at all.  She was sure she had got rid of her so nicely—­so sure Mistress Mollie had come to grief in some way for her sins—­that it was a little too bad to have her come walking coolly back and taking possession again, as if nothing had happened.