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." "Go and tell him to come here, then.