Again Mr. Ingelow smiled.

“Really, a raking cross-examination.  Permit me to decline answering that question.”

“And you know nothing of Mollie’s previous disappearance—­of that mysterious fortnight?”

“My good woman, be reasonable.  I’m not an astrologer, nor a wizard, nor yet a clairvoyant.  I’m not in Miss Dane’s confidence.  I put it to yourself—­how should I know?”

“You shuffle—­you equivocate!” cried Miriam, impatiently.  “Why don’t you answer at once—­yes or no?”

“My dear lady,” with a deprecating wave of his shapely hand, “don’t be so dreadfully blunt.  Pray tell me of what you accuse me—­of forcibly abducting Miss Dane last night at ten o’clock?  With my hand on my heart, madame, on the word of a man and brother—­on the honor of an artist—­I solemnly asseverate I didn’t do it!”

Miriam groaned.

“Then what has become of that unfortunate child?  She thought it was you, or she never would have gone.”

The fair, refined face of the artist flushed deep red, and he was grave in an instant.

“Madame, what do you say?”

“Oh, you know!” cried the woman, vehemently.  “You surely know, else all you men are blinder than bats.  You know she loved you well.”

“Oh, madame!”

The young man caught his breath.

“She told me so herself,” cried Miriam, recklessly betraying this, and wringing her hands; “and she went last night, hoping it was you.”

The momentary expression of rapture had quite faded out of Mr. Ingelow’s face by this time, and, leaning against his easel, he was listening with cool attention.  But if Miriam could have known how this man’s heart was plunging against his ribs!

“I think there is a mistake somewhere,” said Hugh, with sang-froid.  “Miss Dane refused me.”

“Bah!” said Miriam, with infinite scorn; “much you know of women, to take that for a test!  But it isn’t to talk of love I came here.  I am half distracted.  The child has met with foul play, I am certain, since you are here.”

“Will you have the goodness to explain, my good woman,” said Mr. Ingelow, beseechingly.  “Consider, I am all in the dark.”

“And I can not enlighten you without telling you the whole story, and if you are not the hero of it, I have no right, and no wish, to do that.  One question I will ask you,” fixing her powerful eyes on his face:  “Do you still love Mollie Dane?”

Mr. Ingelow smiled serene as the sunset sky outside.

“A point-blank question.  Forgive me if I decline answering it.”

Miriam’s eyes flashed fire.

“You never cared for her!” she said, in fierce impatience.  “You are a poltroon and a carpet-knight, like the rest—­ready with plenty of fine words, and nothing else!  You asked her to marry you, and you don’t care whether she is living or dead!”

“Why should I?” said Mr. Ingelow, coolly.  “She refused to marry me.”