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If I lose Mollie, life is not worth the having." He rose to go. Mr. Walraven folded up the mysterious epistle and handed it back. "I see it is postmarked in the city. If the writer really knows aught of Mollie, she must be nearer at hand than we imagine. Would to Heaven the week were up." "Then you have faith in this?" said the baronet, looking astonished. "I have hope, my dear sir.

Mysterious Miriam, in her dismal garret lodging, was not the only person who read, and intelligently comprehended, these two very singular advertisements. Of all the hundreds who may have perused and wondered over them, probably there were but four who understood in the least what was meant the two most interested, and Miriam and Mrs. Walraven. Stay!

Carl Walraven will prevent you, if he can. I say to you, come come come. If there was one thing on earth that flighty Mollie was really in earnest about, it was in knowing her own history. Her marriage sunk into insignificance in comparison.

I'm sorry for the past I am indeed, and am willing to do well for the future. Sit down and be sociable, and tell me all about it. How came you to let the little one go on the stage first?" Miriam spurned away the proffered chair. "I spurn it as I would your dead body if it lay before me, Carl Walraven! Sit down with you? Never, if my life depended on it!

But you will never have the chance. I don't hate my poor little captive, remember. There! is that the dinner-bell?" "Yes come! We have Sir Roger Trajenna to-day, and Mr. Walraven detests being kept waiting." "Poor Sir Roger!" with a sneering laugh. "How does the lovesick old dotard bear this second loss?" "Better than he did the first; his pride aids him.

People paused to look again at him for he was a stranger there but nobody recognized him, and Mr. Carl Walraven read his bill undisturbed. The play was "Fanchon the Cricket," and the bill announced, in very big capitals, that the part of Fanchon was to be played by that "distinguished and beautiful young English actress, Miss Mollie Dane." Mr.

Walraven," the young man said, his cool brown eyes looking the discovered murderer through. "I know all, and I believe all. You have been duped from first to last. Miss Dane is no child of yours, thank God!" He raised his hand as he uttered the solemn thanksgiving, with a gesture that thrilled the guilty man through. "Your secret is safe with her and with me," pursued Hugh Ingelow, after a pause.

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.

For the next hour I wish to be left alone. Tell Mr. Walraven." She shut the door in the amazed attendant's face. Lucy heard the key turn. A second she stood petrified, then she hastened off to deliver her message. Mr. Walraven stood aghast. Lucy was plied with questions. Who was the girl? What was she like? What had she said? Where had she come from? Sir Roger was wildly alarmed at first, but Mr.

She pulled a veil she wore down over her gaunt face, and with the last word hurried out and disappeared. Mr. Walraven, suppressing his rage, turned to the minister. "Proceed!" he said, impatiently, "and make haste." The bride, very white with anger and mortification, resumed her place; the ceremony recommenced. This time there was no interruption, and in ten minutes the twain were one flesh.