“Well?” said the doctor.

“Well, I followed.  They entered Miss Dane’s chamber and closed the door.  The temptation was strong, the spirit willing, and the flesh weak.  I crouched at the key-hole and listened.  It was a very long conversation—­it was fully three o’clock before Miriam departed—­but it held me spell-bound with its interest from beginning to end.  Once I was nearly caught—­I sneezed.  I vanished behind a big cabinet, and just saved myself, for they opened the door.  Mollie set it down to the wind, or the rats, closed the door again, and my curiosity overcoming my fear of detection, I crept back and heard every word.”

“Well?” again said the doctor.

“Well, Mollie made a clean breast of it.  On her wedding-night she was enticed from the house by a letter purporting to come from this Miriam.  The letter told her that Miriam was dying, and that she wished to make a revelation of her parentage to Mollie, before she departed for a worse land.  It seems she knows Miss Dane’s antecedents, and Miss Dane doesn’t.  Mollie went at once, as the Reverend Raymond Rashleigh did, and, like him, was blindfolded and bound, borne away to some unknown house, nobody knows where, waited on by the girl who carried the letter, and held a fast prisoner by a man in a black mask.  That man’s face Mollie never saw, nor has she the least idea of whom it may be.  She is inclined to suspect you.”

“Me!”

The doctor’s stare of astonishment was a sight to behold.

“It is you, or Sardonyx, or Ingelow—­one of you three, Mollie is certain.  The particular one she can’t decide.  She dreads it may be either the lawyer or the doctor, and hopes, with all her heart, it may be the artist.”

Dr. Oleander’s swarthy brows knit with a midnight scowl.

“She is in love with this puppy, Ingelow.  I have thought as much for some time.”

“Hopelessly in love with him, and perfectly willing to be his wife, if he proves to be her husband.  Should it chance to be you, she will administer a dose of strychnine the first available opportunity.”

“She said that, did she?”

“That, and much more.  She hates, detests, and abhors you, and loves the handsome artist with all her heart.”

“The little jade!  And how about her elderly admirer?”

“Sir Roger?  Oh! he is to get the go-by.  ’Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.’  He will stand the blow.  ’All for love, and the world well lost,’ is to be her motto for the future.  She is in love with Hugh, and Hugh she must have.  The spoiled baby is tired of all its old toys, and wants a new one.”

“And she married this masked man, and never saw him?  That is odd.”

“The whole affair is excessively odd.  You know how impatient she naturally is.  She grew desperate in her confinement in a few days, and was ready to sell her birthright for a mess of pottage—­ready to sacrifice her freedom in one way for her freedom in another.  She had the man’s promise that he would return her to her friends a week after she became his wife.  She married him, and he kept his promise.”