"The devoted baronet, no doubt," she said to herself, with an unpleasant
smile; "come to condole with his brother in affliction. Poor old noodle!
Truly, a fool of forty will never be wise! A fool of seventy, in his
case."
One of the tall footmen opened the door. But it was not the stately
baronet. The footman recoiled with a little yelp of terror--he had
admitted this visitor before. A gaunt and haggard woman, clad in rags,
soaking with rain--a wretched object as ever the sun shone on.
"Is Carl Walraven within?" demanded this grisly apparition, striding in
and confronting the tottering footman with blazing black eyes. "Tell him
Miriam is here."
The footman recoiled further with another feeble yelp, and Blanche
Walraven haughtily and angrily faced the intruder.
"Who are you?"
The blazing eyes burning in hollow sockets turned upon the glittering,
perfumed vision.
"Who am I? What would you give to know? Who are you? Carl Walraven's
wife, I suppose. His wife! Ha! ha!" she laughed--a weird, blood-curdling
laugh. "I wish you joy of your husband, most magnificent madame! Tell
me, fellow," turning with sudden fierceness upon the dismayed
understrapper, "is your master at home?"
"Y-e-e-s! That is, I think so, ma'am.
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