CHAPTER XI.
A MIDNIGHT TETE-A-TETE.
Mollie Dane sat alone in her pretty room.

A bright fire burned in the grate.

Old Mme.

Walraven liked coal-fires, and would have them throughout the house.

It was very late--past midnight--but the gas burned full flare, its garish flame subdued by globes of tinted glass, and Mollie, on a low stool before the fire, was still in all the splendor of her pink silk dinner-dress, her laces, her pearls.
Mollie's considering-cap was on, and Mollie's dainty brows were contracted, and the rosebud month ominously puckered.