"Come in, miss," said this young person, as though they had just parted an hour ago. "Master told me to expect you. Sit down; he'll be here in a minute. You look fit to drop."
She felt "fit to drop." She sunk into the proffered seat, trembling through every limb in her body, overwhelmed with a stunning consciousness that the supreme moment of her life had come.
Sarah Grant left the room, and Mollie was alone. Her eyes turned to the door, and fixed themselves there as if fascinated. Her head was awhirl—her mind a blank. Something tremendous was about to happen—what, she could not think.
The door opened slowly—the man in the black mask strode in and stood, silent and awful, before her.
Without a word or cry, but white as death, she rose up and confronted him with wild, dilated eyes.
"You know me, Mollie," the masked man said, addressing her, as before, in French—"I am your husband."
"Yes," Mollie answered, her white lips scarce able to form the words. "For God's sake, take off that mask and show me your face!"
Without a word, he unclasped the cloak and let it slip on the floor; he removed the flowing hair and beard, and with it the mask. And uttering a low, wailing cry, Mollie staggered back—for there before her, pale as herself, stood the man she loved—Hugh Ingelow!