"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!"