He rose to go. Mr. Walraven folded up the mysterious epistle and handed it back.
"I see it is postmarked in the city. If the writer really knows aught of Mollie, she must be nearer at hand than we imagine. Would to Heaven the week were up."
"Then you have faith in this?" said the baronet, looking astonished.
"I have hope, my dear sir. It is very easy believing in what we wish to come true. There may be something in it. Who knows?"
The baronet shook his head.
"I wish I could think so. I sometimes fear we will never see her again. Poor child! Poor little Mollie! Heaven only knows what you may not have suffered ere this!"
"Let us not despair. Pray, resume your seat. I am quite alone this stormy night, Sir Roger. Mrs. Walraven has gone to the opera."
But the baronet moved resolutely to the door.
"Thanks, Mr. Walraven; but I am fit company for no one. I have been utterly miserable since that fatal night. I can find rest nowhere. I will not inflict my wearisome society upon you, my friend. Good-night!"
The week passed. As Sir Roger said, the inquiries and rewards were doubled—trebled; but all in vain. No trace—not the faintest shadow of trace—of the lost one could be found. The mystery deepened and darkened every day.