The artist opened his own handsome orbs to their widest extent.
"I wish to see Mr. Hugh Ingelow," said this singular woman in a deep
bass voice.
"I am Hugh Ingelow, madame, at your service."
The woman fixed her burning eyes on the calm, serenely handsome face.
The lazy hazel eyes of the artist met hers coolly, unflinchingly.
"I await your pleasure, madame. Will you enter and sit down?"
The woman came in, closed the door cautiously after her, but declined
the proffered seat.
"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?" asked the artist,
quietly. "I have not the pleasure of knowing you."
"I am Mollie Dane's aunt."
"Ah, indeed!" and Mr. Hugh Ingelow lighted up, for the first time, with
something like human interest. "Yes, yes; I remember you now. You came
to Mr. Carl Walraven's wedding and gave us a little touch of high
tragedy. Pray sit down, and tell me what I can do for you."
"I don't want to sit. I want you to answer me a question."
"One hundred, if you like."
"Do you know where Mollie Dane is?"
"Not exactly," said Mr.
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