“I wonder you never take it into your head to go back upon the stage.  You liked that life?”

“Liked it?  Yes:  and I will, too,” said Mollie, recklessly, “some day, when I’m more than usually aggravated.  It strikes me, however, I should like to find out my husband first.”

“Finish your story.  You married this masked man?”

“Yes; that very night, about midnight, we were married.  Sarah came to me early in the evening, and told me to be ready, that the clergyman would be there, and that I was to be wedded under my Christian name, Mary, alone.  I still wore the wedding-robes in which I was to have been made Lady Trajenna.  To these a white silk mask, completely hiding my face, was added, and I was led forth by my masked bridegroom into another apartment, and stood face to face with a portly, reverend gentleman of most clerical aspect and most alarmed face.  I thought he had a familiar look, but in the confusion of such a moment I could not place him.  I know him now, though—­it was the Reverend Raymond Rashleigh, of St. Pancras’.  I’ve heard him preach dozens of times.”

“How came he to lend himself to such an irregular proceeding?”

“By force, as I did.  He was carried off in much the same fashion, and scared pretty nearly out of his wits—­married us to get free—­like me again.  At the conclusion of the ceremony, I returned with Sarah to the inner room, and the Reverend Mr. Rashleigh was safely taken home.”

There was a pause.  Mollie sat looking with knitted brows into the fire.

“Well?” questioned Miriam, sharply.

“I stayed there a week,” went on Mollie, hurriedly.  “It was part of the compact, and if he was to keep his, and liberate me, I was to remain quietly as long as I had promised.  But it was not so long in passing.  I had the range of two or three rooms—­all with carefully closed blinds, however—­and I had a piano and plenty of books, and as much of Miss Sarah Grant’s society as I chose.  There was nothing to be got out of her, however, and I tried hard enough, goodness knows.  You might as well wring a dry sponge.”

“And the man you married?”

“Oh, he was there, too—­off and on everyday; but he kept me as much in the dark as Sarah.  He always persisted in speaking French to me—­that I might fail to recognize his voice, I dare say; and he spoke it as fluently as a Frenchman.  But he was really an agreeable companion, could talk about everything I liked to talk about, could play the piano to a charm, and I should have liked him immensely if he had not been my husband, and if he had not worn that odious mask.  Do you know, Miriam,” flashing a sudden look up, “if he had taken off that mask, and showed me the handsome face of one of my rejected suitors I did not absolutely abhor, I think I should have consented to stay with him always.  He was so nice to talk to, and I liked his bold stroke for a wife—­so much in the ‘Dare-Devil Dick’ style.  But I would have been torn to pieces before I’d have dropped a hint to that effect.”