“My good woman, whoever you are, if you have a woman’s heart, take pity on me.  I have been brought here against my will by this man.”

“Ah, poor creeter!” sighed the old woman, shaking her grizzly old head; “as if I didn’t know that.  Poor little creeter!”

“Help me!” Mollie cried.  “Don’t aid this man to keep me here.  I don’t know who he is—­I have been wickedly entrapped.  I am a little, helpless girl, but I have rich and powerful friends who will liberally reward you.  Don’t help this, bad, bold man to keep me a prisoner here.”

“Ah, poor creeter!” sighed the old woman, plaintively, a second time; “only hear her talk now.  And such a pretty little thing, too!  Dear, dear!  It goes to one’s heart.  Don’t keep her standing in them wet clothes, sir.  Come upstairs.  Such a pity, such a pity!”

She hobbled away, muttering to herself and shaking her head.  The disguised man laughed—­a low, deriding laugh.

“You see, my dear little Mollie, you’ll get any amount of pity, but nothing else.  Old Sally will be very sincerely sorry for you, but she won’t help you to escape.  On the contrary, she’ll keep you under lock and key as faithfully as though you were the Koh-i-noor.  Come in, you may take cold in this nasty, draughty passage.”

He drew her with him.  Mollie seemed in a sort of dreamy swoon, and went passively.  They ascended the stairs into another dark and draughty hall, flanked on either side by a couple of doors.  One of these the old dame opened, and quite a new picture burst on Mollie’s sight.

The apartment was not at all like the mysterious padded room of former experience; the four bare walls were plastered and blankly bare; the boarded floor was strewn with rags; the two big square windows were draped with paper-blinds.  A huge fire of logs, such as Mollie had never beheld in her life before, roared gloriously in the old-fashioned fire-place, and lighted the room with a lurid glow.  A four-post bedstead, the bed covered with a gaudy patch-work or counterpane, stood in one corner, a table with a white cloth stood in another, a chest of drawers in a third, and the door by which they entered in the fourth.  This was Mollie’s new prison.

“Elegant simplicity,” observed the man, leading her in; “but we will do our best to make you comfortable during your stay.  It need not be long—­you know it depends on yourself, Mollie.”

“On myself?”

She turned her pale face and angry, eyes upon him.

“I am your husband by a secret marriage, you know.  Let that marriage be solemnized over again in public—­no one need know of the other:  consent to be my wife openly and above-board, and your prison doors will fly open that hour.”

“In Heaven’s name, who are you?” cried Mollie, impatiently.  “End this ridiculous farce—­remove that disguise—­let me see who I am speaking to.  This melodramatic absurdity has gone on long enough—­the play is played out.  Talk to me, face to face, like a man, if you dare!”