“Good-morning, Mrs. Walraven,” said the toxicologist, briskly.  “You sent for me.  What’s the matter?”

He took off his tall hat, set it on a sofa, threw his gloves into it, and indulged in a prolonged professional stare at his fair relative.

“Nothing very serious, I imagine.  You’re the picture of handsome health.  Really, Blanche, the Walraven air seems to agree with you.  You grow fresher, and brighter, and plumper, and better-looking every day.”

“I didn’t send for you to pay compliments, Doctor Oleander,” said Mrs. Walraven, smiling graciously, all the same.  “See if that door is shut fast, please, and come and sit here beside me.  I’ve something very serious to say to you.”

Dr. Oleander did as directed, and took a seat beside the lady.

“Your husband won’t happen in, will he, Blanche?  Because he might be jealous, you know, at this close proximity; and your black-a-vised men of unknown antecedents are generally the very dickens when they fall a prey to the green-eyed monster.”

“Pshaw! are you not my cousin and my medical adviser?  Don’t be absurd, Guy.  Mr. Walraven troubles himself very little about me, one way or other.  I might hold a levee of my gentlemen friends here, week in and week out, for all he would know or care.”

“Ah! post-nuptial bliss.  I thought marriage, in his case, would be a safe antidote for love.  All right, Blanche.  Push ahead.  What’s your business?  Time is precious this morning.  Hosts of patients on hand, and an interesting case of leprosy up at Bellevue.”

“I don’t want to know your medical horrors,” said Mrs. Walraven, with a shudder of disgust; “and I think you will throw over your patients when you hear the subject I want to talk about.  That subject is—­Mollie Dane!”

“Mollie!” The doctor was absorbed and vividly interested all at once.  “What of Mollie Dane?”

“This,” lowering her voice:  “I have found out the grand secret.  I know where that mysterious fortnight was spent.”

“Blanche!” He leaned forward, almost breathless.  “Have you?  Where?”

“You’d never guess.  It sounds too romantic—­too incredible—­for belief.  Even the hackneyed truism, ‘Truth is stranger than fiction,’ will hardly suffice to conquer one’s astonishment—­yet true it is.  Do you recollect the Reverend Mr. Rashleigh’s story at the dinner-party, the other day—­that incredible tale of his abduction and the mysterious marriage of the two masks?”

“I recollect—­yes.”

“He spoke of the bride, you remember—­described her as small and slender, with a profusion of fair, curling hair.”

“Yes—­yes—­yes!”

“Guy,” fixing her powerful black eyes on his face, “do you need to be told who that masked bride was?”

“Mollie Dane!” cried the doctor, impetuously.

“Mollie Dane,” said Mrs. Walraven, calmly.

“By Jove!”

Dr. Oleander sat for a instant perfectly aghast.