"Well, Mollie made a clean breast of it. On her wedding-night she was enticed from the house by a letter purporting to come from this Miriam. The letter told her that Miriam was dying, and that she wished to make a revelation of her parentage to Mollie, before she departed for a worse land. It seems she knows Miss Dane's antecedents, and Miss Dane doesn't. Mollie went at once, as the Reverend Raymond Rashleigh did, and, like him, was blindfolded and bound, borne away to some unknown house, nobody knows where, waited on by the girl who carried the letter, and held a fast prisoner by a man in a black mask. That man's face Mollie never saw, nor has she the least idea of whom it may be. She is inclined to suspect you."
"Me!"
The doctor's stare of astonishment was a sight to behold.
"It is you, or Sardonyx, or Ingelow—one of you three, Mollie is certain. The particular one she can't decide. She dreads it may be either the lawyer or the doctor, and hopes, with all her heart, it may be the artist."
Dr. Oleander's swarthy brows knit with a midnight scowl.
"She is in love with this puppy, Ingelow. I have thought as much for some time."
"Hopelessly in love with him, and perfectly willing to be his wife, if he proves to be her husband. Should it chance to be you, she will administer a dose of strychnine the first available opportunity."
"She said that, did she?"
"That, and much more. She hates, detests, and abhors you, and loves the handsome artist with all her heart."
"The little jade! And how about her elderly admirer?"