The sound of the voice, now that he spoke French, was quite unlike that
of the man she had come to meet. And he was not wont to call her
Cricket.
Had she made some horrible mistake--been caught in some dreadful trap?
But, no; that was impossible.
"Look here, Mr. Mask," said Mollie, fiercely, "I don't want any of
your familiarity, and I trust to your honor to respect my unprotected
situation. I appointed this meeting because you kept your word, and
behaved with tolerable decency when we last parted. I want to end this
matter. I want to know who you are."
"My precious Mollie, your husband!"
"But who are you?"
"One of your rejected suitors."
"But which of them?--there were so many."
"The one who loved you best."
"Pshaw! I don't want trifling! What is your name?"
"Ernest."
"I never had a lover of that name," said Mollie, decidedly. "You are
only mocking me. Are you--are you--Hugh Ingelow?"
Her voice shook a little. The man by her side noted it, and burst into
a derisive laugh.
"You are not Hugh Ingelow!" Mollie cried in a voice of sharp, sudden
pain--"you are not!"
"And you are sorry, pretty Mollie? Why, that's odd, too! He was a
rejected lover, was he not?"
"Let me out!" exclaimed the girl, frantically--"let me go! I thought you
were Hugh Ingelow, or I never would have come! Let me out! Let me out!"
She made a rush at the door, with a shrill cry of affright.
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