But Miriam did not hear that last forcible adjuration. She was out of the library, and out of the house, ere it was well uttered—lost in the wet, black night.
Left alone, Carl Walraven resumed his march up and down the apartment, with a gloomier face and more frowning brows than ever.
It was bad enough before, without this tiger-cat of a Miriam coming to make things ten times worse. It was all bravado, his defiance of her, and he knew it. He was completely in her power, to ruin for life if she chose to speak.
"And she will choose!" growled Carl Walraven, in a rage, "the accursed old hag! if Mollie Dane doesn't turn up before the month ends. By the Lord Harry! I'll twist that wizen gullet of hers the next time she shows her ugly black face here! Confound Mollie Dane and all belonging to her! I've never known a day's rest since I met them first."
There was a tap at the door. The tall footman threw it open and ushered in Sir Roger Trajenna. The stately old baronet looked ten years older in these few days. Anxiety told upon him more hardly than his seventy yews.
"Good-evening, Sir Roger!" cried Mr. Walraven, advancing eagerly. "Any news of Mollie?"
He expected to hear "No," but the baronet said "Yes." He was deeply agitated, and held forth, in a hand that shook, a note to Carl Walraven.
"I received that an hour ago, through the post-office. For Heaven's sake, read, and tell me what you think of it!"
He dropped exhausted into a chair. Carl Walraven tore open the brief epistle, and devoured its contents:
SIR ROGER TRAJENNA,—Give up your search for Mollie Dane. It is useless; a waste of time and money. She is safe and well, and will be at home in a week, but she will never be your wife.