Mollie Dane, scarcely breathing herself, listening absorbed, here became conscious, by some sort of prescience, of the basilisk gaze her guardian's wife had fixed upon her.
The strangest, smile sat on her arrogant face as she looked steadfastly at Mollie's flowing yellow curls.
"I married that mysterious pair," went on the clergyman—"Ernest and Mary. There were two witnesses—my respectable young woman and the coachman; there was the ring—everything necessary and proper."
Mollie's left hand was on the table. A plain, thick band of gold gleamed on the third finger. She hastily snatched it away, but not before Mrs. Walraven's black eyes saw it.
"I was brought home," concluded the clergyman, "and left standing, as morning broke, close to my own door, and I have never heard or seen my mysterious masks since. There's an adventure for you!"
The ladies rose from the table. As they passed into the drawing-room, a hand fell upon Mollie's shoulder. Glancing back, she saw the face of Mrs. Carl Walraven, lighted with a malicious smile.
"Such a queer story, Mollie! And such an odd bride—undersized, very slender, golden ringlets—name, Mary! My pretty Cricket, I think I know where you passed that mysterious fortnight!"