“And he never let her see his face?”

“Never! and she can not even suspect who it is.  He wore a long, disguising cloak that concealed his figure, false beard and hair, and spoke only French.  But she hopes it may be Hugh Ingelow.  What do you think?”

“That is not Hugh Ingelow.  The fellow hasn’t energy enough to entrap a fly.”

“Sardonyx, then?”

“Sardonyx is too cautious.  He knows too much of the law to run his head into the lion’s jaws.  Besides, it is too absurdly romantic for so practical a man.  No, it is not Sardonyx.”

“Yourself, then?”

The doctor laughed.

“Nonsense, Blanche!  Mollie is out of her reckoning about us three.  By the bye, I see now through those queer advertisements that have appeared in the ‘Herald’ of late.  Black Mask—­White Mask.”

“Yes; Mollie wants to find out whom she has espoused.  By Miriam’s advice, she inserted that first advertisement to Black Mask.  He, as you perceive, replies in to-day’s edition.”

“And she is to meet him to-morrow night.”

“Exactly; and will, unless you forestall him.”

“How?”

“Don’t be stupid, pray.  What is to hinder you from being at the place of rendezvous first and playing Black Mask?”

“I beg your pardon; I am stupid still.  Black Mask will be there himself.”

“Look here:  ten is the hour.  Toward evening I will advance every time-piece in the house, Mollie’s watch included, half an hour.  She will be at the place of tryst at half past nine.  Be you there, likewise—­cloaked, bearded, bewigged.  Have a carriage in waiting.  Make her think you are Hugh Ingelow, and she will enter it without hesitation.  Speak French.  She will not recognize your voice.  Once in the carriage, carry her off.”

“Where?” asked the doctor, astonished at the rapidity of all this.

“To Long Island—­to the farm.  She will be as safe there as in Sing Sing.  Make her think you are her unknown husband.  It will be easily done, for she half thinks it now.  Only—­look out for the strychnine!”

The doctor rose to his feet, his sallow face flushed, his small black eyes sparkling.

“By Jove!  Blanche, what a plotter you are!  I’ll do it, as sure as my name’s Guy.  I love the little witch to madness, and I owe her one for the way she jilted me.  I’ll do it, by thunder!”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Walraven, quietly.  “Don’t get excited, and don’t make a noise.  I knew you would.”

“But what will the old lady say?”

“Who cares for the old lady?” retorted Mme. Blanche, contemptuously.  “Not you, I hope.  Tell her it’s an insane patient you have brought to her for quiet and sea air.  Judy is a regular dragon, and the old woman is as keen as a ferret and as sly as a female fox.  Mollie won’t escape from them.  She may yield, if she really is convinced you are her husband.  Tell her you love her to distraction—­can’t