CHAPTER XIV.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
The April day had been very long, and very, very dull in the handsome Walraven Fifth Avenue palace.

Long and lamentable, as the warning cry of the banshee, wailed the dreary blast.

Ceaselessly, dismally beat the rain against the glass.

The icy breath of the frozen North was in the wind, curdling your blood and turning your skin to goose-flesh; and the sky was of lead, and the streets were slippery and sloppy, and the New York pavements altogether a delusion and a snare.
All through this bad, black April day, Mollie Dane had wandered through the house, upstairs and down-stairs, like an uneasy ghost.
Some evil spirit of unrest surely possessed her.

She could settle nowhere.