Mr. Walraven stood and looked at her, a petrified gazer.  Such unheard-of impudence!  Sir Roger Trajenna took up the catechism.

“Your pardon, Mollie, but I must ask you a few more questions.  There was a young person brought you a letter on the night we were—­” His voice failed.  “May I ask who was that young person, and what were the contents of that letter?”

Mollie looked up, frowning impatiently.  But the baronet was so pale and troubled asking his questions that she had not the heart to refuse.

“That young person, Sir Roger, called herself Sarah Grant.  The letter purported to come from a woman who knew me before I knew myself.  It told me she was dying, and had important revelations to make to me—­implored me to hasten at once if I would see her alive.  I believed the letter, and went with Sarah.  That letter, Sir Roger, was a forgery and a trap.”

“Into which you fell?”

“Into which I fell headlong.  The greatest ninny alive could not have been snared more easily.”

“You have no idea who perpetrated this atrocity?”

“No,” said Mollie, “no idea.  I wish I had!  If I wouldn’t make him sup sorrow in spoonfuls, my name’s not Mollie!  There, Sir Roger, that will do.  You’ve heard all I’ve got to tell, and the better way will be to ask no more questions.  If you think I am not sufficiently explicit—­if you think I keep anything back that you have a right to know—­why, there is only one course left.  You can take it, and welcome.  I release you from all ties to me.  I shall think you perfectly justified, and we will continue the best possible friends.”  She said it firmly, with an eye that flashed and a cheek that burned.  “There is only one thing can make us quarrel, Sir Roger—­that is, asking me questions I don’t choose to answer.  And I don’t choose to answer in the present case.”

“But I insist upon your answering, Mollie Dane!” burst out Carl Walraven.  “I don’t choose to be mystified and humbugged in this egregious manner.  I insist upon a complete explanation.”

“Do you, indeed, Mr. Walraven?  And how are you going to get it?”

“From you, Mollie Dane.”

“Not if I know myself—­and I rather fancy I do!  Oh, no, Mr. Walraven—­no, you don’t!  I shan’t say another word to you, or to any other living being, until I choose; and it’s no use bullying, for you can’t make me, you know.  I’ve given Sir Roger his alternative, and I can give you yours.  If you don’t fancy my remaining here under a cloud, why, I can go as I came, free as the wind that blows.  You’ve only to say the word, Guardy Walraven!”

The blue eyes flashed as Carl Walraven had never seen them flash before; the pink-tinged cheeks flamed rose-red; but her voice never rose, and she kept her quaint seat on the stool.

“Cricket!  Cricket!  Cricket!” was “guardy’s” reproachful cry.