Yes, it still rained; it still blew in long, shuddering gusts; the low-lying sky was inky black; athwart the darkness flashed the murky street lamps.
Mollie dropped the curtain, with a little shiver.
"'The night is cold, and dark, and dreary, It rains, and the wind is never weary.' It's a horrible night to be abroad, but I'll keep my word, if I drown for it!" She hunted up the long water-proof mantle she had worn the night of her abduction, drew the hood far over her head and face, wrapped it around her, opened the window, and resolutely stepped out on the piazza.
She paused an instant--a blinding rush of wind and rain almost took her off her feet; the next, the brave little heroine was flitting along the slippery piazza, down the stairs, out of the wicket gate and into the black, shining street.
Away sped Mollie--swift as a little, wingless Mercury--down the avenue, through Union Square, to the place of tryst.
She expected every moment to hear the city clocks chime ten, but she reached Broadway without hearing them.

Little wonder, when it was but half past nine.
Drenched through, blown about, breathless, panting, almost scared at the dreary forlornness of the deserted streets, the adventurous little damsel reached the place of tryst.
Was she too soon?
Surely not.

There stood a cab, drawn close to the curbstone, and there, in the shadow of the cab, stood a tall man in a cloak, evidently waiting.
The lamps of the carriage shone upon him, but the cloak collar was so turned up, the slouched hat so pulled down, such a quantity of dark beard between, that nothing was visible of the face whatever.
Mollie paused, altogether exhausted; the man advanced a step out of the shadow.
"White Mask ?" he asked, in a cautious whisper.
"Black Mask!" responded Mollie, promptly.
"All right, then!" replied the man, speaking in French, and speaking rapidly.

"It's impossible to stand here in the rain and talk.

I have brought a carriage--let me assist you in." But Mollie shrunk back.