Mr. Walraven spent the night in a fever of impatience.  He was one of those men who, when they set their hearts on anything, find no peace, no rest, until they obtain it.  He had come here partly through curiosity, partly because he dare not refuse Miriam; he had seen Mary Dane, and lo! at first sight he was dazzled and bewitched.

Next morning, at breakfast, Mr. Walraven obtained all the information he desired concerning Miss Mollie Dane.  Some half dozen of the actors were stopping at the hotel, and proved very willing, under the influence of brandy and water, to give the free-handed stranger Miss Dane’s biography as far as they knew it.

She was just as charming off the stage as on; just as pretty, just as saucy, just as captivating.  She was wild and full of tricks as an unbroken colt; but she was a thoroughly good girl, for all that, lavish of her money to all who needed, and snubbing lovers incontinently.  She was stopping up the street at another hotel, and she would in all probability be easily accessible about noon.

The seedy, strolling players drank their diluted brandy, smoked their cigars, and told Mr. Walraven all this.  They rather laughed at the New York millionaire when he was out of sight.  He had fallen in love with pretty, blue-eyed Mollie, no doubt, and that was a very stale story with the shabby players.

Noon came, and, speckless and respectable to the last degree, Mr. Walraven presented himself at the other hotel, and sent up his card with a waiter to Miss Dane.

The waiter ushered him into the hotel parlor, cold and prim as it is in the nature of hotel parlors to be.  Mr. Walraven sat down and stared vaguely at the papered walls, rather at a loss as to what he should say to this piquant Mollie, and wondering how he would feel if she laughed at him.

“And she will laugh,” he thought, with a mental groan; “she’s the sort of girl that laughs at everything.  And she may refuse, too; there is no making sure of a woman; and then what will Miriam say?”

He paused with a gasp.  There was a quick patter of light feet down the stairs, the last two cleared with a jump, a swish of silken skirts, a little gush of perfume, and then, bright as a flash of light, blue-eyed Mollie stood before him.  She held his card in her fingers, and all the yellow hair fell over her plump shoulders, like amber sunshine over snow.

“Mr. Carl Walraven?” Miss Dane said, with a smile and a graceful little bow.

Mr. Carl Walraven rose up and returned that pretty courtesy with a salute stiff and constrained.

“Yes, Miss Dane.”

“Pray resume your seat, Mr. Walraven,” with an airy wave of a little white hand.  “To what do I owe this visit?”

She fluttered into a big black arm-chair as she spoke, folded the little white hands, and glanced across with brightly expectant eyes.

“You must think this call, from an utter stranger, rather singular, Miss Dane,” Mr. Walraven began, considerably at a loss.