"Mr. Sardonyx is with her now," said Mollie, "arranging matters. Oh, dear! I can't help feeling nervous and troubled about it. It's not fair to punish her and let Doctor Oleander go off scot-free."
"His punishment is his detection and your loss, Mollie. I can think of no heavier punishment than that. I met him, by the bye, in Broadway, as large as life, and as impudent as the gentleman with the cloven foot. He bowed, and I stared, and cut him dead, of course."
Before Mollie could speak, the door-bell rang. A moment later and there was the sound of an altercation in the hall.
"You can't see Miss Dane, you ragamuffin!" exclaimed the mellifluous tones of footman Wilson. "You hadn't oughter ring the door-bell! The airy's for such as you!"
"It is Miriam!" cried Mollie, running to the door. "It is surely Miriam at last!"
But it was not Miriam. It was a dirty-faced boy—a tatter-demalion of fourteen years—with sharp, knowing black eyes. Those intelligent orbs fixed on the young lady at once.
"Be you Miss Dane—Miss Mollie Dane—miss?"
"Yes," said Mollie. "Who are you?"
"Sammy Slimmens, miss. Miss Miriam sent me, miss—she did."
"Miriam? Are you sure? Why didn't she come herself?"