"That is all my errand here, 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. "You may live to the end of your life unmolested of man, for us, but you must never look upon Mollie Dane's face more."
Carl Walraven sunk down into a chair and covered his face, with a groan. Hugh Ingelow turned to go.
"Stop!" Mr. Walraven said, hoarsely. "What is to become of her? Are you going to marry her, Hugh Ingelow?"
"I decline answering that question, Mr. Walraven," the artist said, haughtily. "Miss Dane will be cared for—believe that. I wish you good-morning."
Mr. Ingelow was very pale when he emerged into thronged Broadway, but there was no indecision in his movements. He hailed a hack passing, sprung in, and was driven rapidly to the east side—to the humble abode of Mrs. Slimmens.
Mollie came forth to meet him, worn and sad, and with traces of tears, but with a bright, glad light in her starry eyes at sight of him—the light of sweet young love.
"I have seen him, Mollie," he said. "I gave him your letter. You would hardly have known him, he looked so utterly aghast and confounded. He will not try to see you, I am certain. And now, my dear girl, for that other and better plan that I spoke of last evening. But first you must take a drive with me—a somewhat lengthy drive."
She looked at him wonderingly, but in no fear.