For a moment the two men glared at each other, immovably, unwaveringly. Prince Ugo's composure did not suffer the faintest relaxation under the direct charge of the American.

"My only reply to that assertion is that you lie," he said, slowly.

"This is a public place, Prince Ugo. I will not knock you down here."

"It is not necessary for me to give you my card. Count Sallaconi will arrange the details with any friend you may name. You shall give me satisfaction for the aspersion you have cast upon my honor." He was turning away when Quentin stepped quickly in front of him.

"If you mean that you expect me to fight a duel with you, I must say you are to suffer disappointment. I do not believe in duelling, and I believe only in killing a man when there is no other alternative. To deliberately set about to shoot another man down is not our method of settling an issue. We either murder in cold blood or we fight it out like men, not like stage heroes."

"I will add then, sir, that you are a coward."

"I have been brave enough to refrain from hiring men to do my fighting. We will fight, Prince Ravorelli, but we will not fight with weapons made by man. You call me a coward and I call you a scoundrel. We have hands and arms and with them we shall fight."

"Count Sallaconi is my second, I do not care to hear another word—"

"If Count Sallaconi comes to me with any ridiculous challenge from you, I'll knock him down and kick him across the street. My friend shot the face off of your poor tool last night. I do not care to repeat the tragedy. I shall not strike you here and now, because the act might mean my arrest and detention on no one knows what sort of a trumped-up charge. You need not bother me with any silly twaddle about swords and pistols I shall pay no attention to it. Ordinarily Americans do not delay actual combat. We usually fight it out on the spot and the best man wins. I will, however, give you the chance to deliberate over my proposition to settle our differences with our hands."

Ravorelli calmly heard him to the end. Then he turned and strode away, smiling derisively.

"You are the only American coward I have ever seen. I trust you appreciate, the distinction," he said, his white teeth showing in malicious ridicule. "Your friend, the hero of last night, should be proud of you."

Quentin watched them until they were lost in the crowd near the Palace, his brain full of many emotions. As he walked into the hotel his only thought was of Dorothy and the effect the quarrel would have on their friendship.

"Which will she choose?" he mused, after narrating to Savage the episode of the park. For the first time Dickey noticed the pallor in his face, the despair in his eyes, the wistful lines about his lips.

"There's only one way to find out, old man," said he, and he did not succeed in disguising the hopelessness in his voice.

"Yes, I guess I'm up to the last trench. I'm right where I have to make the final stand, let the result be what it may," said the other, dejectedly.

"Don't give up, Phil. If you are to win, it will take more courage than you are showing now. A bold front will do more than anything else just at this stage. The result depends not entirely on how eager she is to become a princess, but how much she cares for the man who cannot make her a princess."

"There's the rub. Does she care enough for me?"

"Have you asked her how much she cares?"

"No."

"Then, don't ask. Merely go and tell her that you know how much she cares. Go this afternoon, old man. O, by the way, Lady Jane sends her love to you, and wants to know if you will come with me to Ostend to-morrow to meet her and Lady Saxondale."



XVI

THE COURAGE OF A COWARD



"Tell Mr. Quentin I cannot see him," was Miss Garrison's response when his card was sent to her late that afternoon. The man who waited nervously in the hall was stunned by this brief, summary dismissal. If he was hurt, bewildered by the stinging rebuff, his wounds would have been healed instantly had he seen the sender of that cruel message. She sat, weak, pale and distressed, before her escritoire, striving to put her mind and her heart to the note she was writing to him whose card, by strange coincidence, had just come up. An hour ago he was in her thoughts so differently and he was in her heart, how deeply she had not realized, until there came the crash which shattered the ideal. He was a coward!

Prince Ugo had been out of her presence not more than ten minutes, leaving her stunned, horrified, crushed by the story he laughingly told, when Quentin was announced. What she heard from Ugo overwhelmed her. She had worshiped, unknown to herself, the very thing in Philip Quentin that had been destroyed almost before her eyes—his manliness, his courage, his strength. Ugo deliberately told of the duel in his rooms, of Savage's heroism in taking up the battles of his timorous friend, of his own challenge in the morning, and of Quentin's abject, cringing refusal to fight. How deliciously he painted the portrait of the coward without exposing his true motive in doing so, can only be appreciated when it is said that Dorothy Garrison came to despise the object of his ridicule.

She forgot his encounter with the porch visitor a fortnight previous; she forgot that the wound inflicted on that occasion was scarcely healed; she forgot all but his disgraceful behavior in the presence of that company of nobles and his cowardice when called to account by one brave man. And he an American, a man from her own land, from the side of the world on which, she had boasted, there lived none but the valorous. This man was the one to whom, a week ago, she had personally addressed an invitation to the wedding in St. Gudule—the envelope was doubtless in his pocket now, perhaps above his heart—and the writing of his name at that time had brought to her the deadly, sinking realization that he was more to her than she had thought.

"Tell Miss Garrison that, if it is at all possible, I must see her at once," said Quentin to the bearer of the message. He was cold with apprehension, hot with humiliation.

"Miss Garrison cannot see you," said the man, returning from his second visit to the room above. Even the servant spoke with a curtness that could not be mistaken. It meant dismissal, cold and decisive, with no explanation, no excuse.

He left the house with his ears burning, his; nerves tingling, his brain whirling. What had caused this astonishing change? Why had she turned against him so suddenly, so strangely? Prince Ugo! The truth flashed into his mind with startling force, dispelling all uncertainty, all doubt. Her lover had forstalled him, had requested or demanded his banishment and she had acquiesced, with a heartlessness that was beyond belief. He had been mistaken as to the extent of her regard for him; he had misjudged the progress of his wooing; he awoke to the truth that her heart was impregnable and that he had not so much as approached the citadel of her love.

Dickey was pacing their rooms excitedly when Quentin entered. Turk stared gloomily from the open window, and there was a sort of savageness in his silent, sturdy back that bespoke volumes of restraint.

"Good Lord, Phil, everybody knows you have refused to fight the prince. The newspaper men have been here and they have tried to pump me dry. Turk says one of the men downstairs is telling everybody that you are afraid of Ravorelli. What are we going to do?" He stopped before the newcomer and there was reproach in his manner. Quentin dejectedly threw himself into a chair and stared at the floor in silence.

"Turk!" he called at last. "I want you to carry a note to Miss Garrison, and I want you to make sure that she reads it. I don't know how the devil you are to do it, but you must. Don't bother me, Dickey. I don't care a continental what the fellow downstairs says; I've got something else to think about." He threw open the lid to one of his trunks and ruthlessly grabbed up some stationery. In a minute he was at the table, writing.

"Is Kapolski dead?" asked Dickey.

"I don't know and don't care. I'll explain in a minute. Sit down somewhere and don't stare, Dickey—for the Lord's sake, don't stare like a scared baby." He completed the feverishly written note, sealed the envelope, and thrust it into Turk's hands. "Now, get that note to her, or don't come back to me. Be quick about it, too."

Turk was off, full of fresh wonder and the importance of his mission. Quentin took a few turns up and down the room before he remembered that he owed some sort of an explanation to his companion.

"She wouldn't see me," he said, briefly.

"What's the matter? Sick?"

"No explanation. Just wouldn't see me, that's all."

"Which means it's all off, eh? The prince got there first and spiked your guns. Well? What have you written to her?"

"That I am going to see her to-night if I have to break into the house."

"Bravely done! Good! And you'll awake in a dungeon cell to-morrow morning, clubbed to a pulp by the police. You may break into the house, but it will be just your luck to be unable to break out of jail in time for the wedding on the 16th. What you need is a guardian."

"I'm in no humor for joking, Dickey."

"It won't be a joke, my boy. Now, tell me just what you wrote to her. Gad, I never knew what trouble meant until I struck Brussels. The hot water here is scalding me to a creamy consistency."

"I simply said that she had no right to treat me as she did to-day and that she shall listen to me. I ended the note by saying I would come to her to-night, and that I would not be driven away until I had seen her,"

"You can't see her if she refuses to receive you."

"But she will see me. She's fair enough to give me a chance."

"Do you want me to accompany you?8'

"I intend to go alone."

"You will find Ugo there, you know. It is bound to be rather trying, Phil. Besides, you are not sure that Turk can deliver the note."

"I'd like to have Ravorelli hear everything I have to say to her, and if he's there he'll hear a few things he will not relish."

"And he'll laugh at you, too."

An hour later Turk returned. He was grinning broadly as he entered the room.

"Did you succeed?" demanded Quentin, leaping to his feet. For answer the little man daintily, gingerly dropped a small envelope into his hand.

"She says to give th' note to you an' to nobody else," he said, triumphantly. Quentin hesitated an instant before tearing open the envelope, the contents of which meant so much to him. As he read, the gloom lifted from his face and his figure straightened to its full height. The old light came back to his eyes.

"She says I may come, Dickey. I knew she would," he exclaimed, joyously.

"When?"

"At nine to-night."

"Is that all she says?"

"Well—er—no. She says she will see me for the last time."

"Not very comforting, I should say."

"I'll risk it's being the last time. I tell you, Savage, I'm desperate. This damnable game has gone far enough. She'll know the truth about the man she's going to marry. If she wants to marry him after what I tell her, I'll—I'll—well, I'll give it up, that's all."

"If she believes what you tell her, she won't care to marry him."

"She knows I'm not a liar, Dickey, confound you."

"Possibly; but she is hardly fool enough to break with the prince unless you produce something more substantial than your own accusation. Where is your proof?"

This led to an argument that lasted until the time came for him to go to her home When he left the hotel in a cab he was thoroughly unstrung, but more determined than ever. As if by magic, there came to life the forces of the prince. While Ugo sat calmly in his apartment, his patient agents were dogging the man he feared, dogging him with the persistence and glee of blood-hounds. Courant and his hirelings, two of them, garbed as city watchmen, were on the Avenue Louise almost as soon as the man they were watching. By virtue of fate and the obstinacy of one Dickey Savage, two of Quentin's supporters, in direct disobedience of his commands, were whirling toward the spot on which so many minds were centered. From a distance Savage and Turk saw him rush from the carriage and up the broad stone steps that led to the darkened veranda. From other points of view, Jules Courant and his men saw the same and the former knew that Turk's visit in the afternoon had resulted in the granting of an interview. No sooner had Quentin entered the house than a man was despatched swiftly to inform Prince Ugo that he had not been denied.

Mrs. Garrison met him in the hall alone. There was defiance in her manner, but he had not come thus far to be repulsed by such a trifle as her opposition. With rare cordiality he advanced and extended his hand.

"Good evening, Mrs. Garrison. I hardly expected to find you and Dorothy quite alone at this time of night." She gave him her hand involuntarily. He had a way about him and she forgot her resolve under its influence. There was no smile on her cold face, however.

"We are usually engaged at this hour, Mr. Quentin, but to-night we are at home to no one but you," she said, meaningly.

"It's very good of you. Perhaps I would better begin by ending your suspense. Dorothy refused to see me to-day and I suspect the cause. I am here for an explanation from her because I think it is due me. I came also to tell you that I love her and to ask her if she loves me. If she does not, I have but to retire, first apologizing for what you may call reprehensibility on my part in presuming to address her on such a matter when I know she is the promised wife of another. If she loves me, I shall have the honor to ask you for her hand, and to ask her to terminate an engagement with a man she does not love. I trust my mission here to-night is fully understood."

"It is very plain to me, Mr. Quentin, and I may be equally frank with you. It is useless."

"You will of course permit me to hear that from the one who has the right to decide," he said.

"My daughter consented to receive you only because I advised her to do so. I will not speak now of your unusual and unwarranted behavior during the past month, nor will I undertake to say how much annoyance and displeasure you have caused. She is the affianced wife of Prince Ravorelli and she marries him because she loves him. I have given you her decision." For a moment their eyes met like the clashing of swords.

"Has she commissioned you to say this to me?" he asked, his eyes penetrating like a knife.

"I am her mother, not her agent."

"Then I shall respectfully insist that she speak for herself." If a look could kill a man, hers would have been guilty of murder.

"She is coming now, Mr. Quentin. You have but a moment of doubt left. She despises you." For the first time his composure wavered, and his lips parted, as if to exclaim against such an assumption. But Dorothy was already at the foot of the stairs, pale, cold and unfriendly. She was the personification of a tragedy queen as she paused at the foot of the stairs, her nand on the newell post, the lights from above shining directly into a face so disdainful that he could hardly believe it was hers. There was no warmth in her voice when she spoke to him, who stood immovable, speechless, before her.

"What have you to say to me, Phil?"

"I have first to ask if you despise me," he found voice to say.

"I decline to answer that question.''

"Your mother has said so."

"She should not have done so."

"Then she has misrepresented you?" he cried, taking several steps toward her.

"I did not say that she had."

"Dorothy, what do you mean by this? What right have you to—" he began, fiercely.

"Mr. Quentin!" exclaimed Mrs. Garrison, haughtily.

"Well," cried he, at bay and doggedly, "I must know the truth. Will you come to the veranda with me, Dorothy?"

"No," she replied, without a quaver.

"I must talk with you alone. What I have to say is of the gravest importance. It is for your welfare, and I shall leave my own feelings out of it, if you like. But I must and will say what I came here to say."

"There is nothing that I care to hear from you."

"By all that's holy, you shall hear it, and alone, too," he exclaimed so commandingly that both women started. He caught a quick flutter in Dorothy's eyes and saw the impulse that moved her lips almost to the point of parting. "I demand—yes, demand—to be heard Come! Dorothy, for God's sake, come!"

He was at her side and, before she could prevent it, had grasped her hand in his own. All resistance was swept away like chaff before the whirlwind. The elder woman so far forgot her cold reserve as to blink her austere eyes, while Dorothy caught her breath, looked startled and suffered herself to be led to the door without a word of protest. There he paused and turned to Mrs. Garrison, whose thunderstruck countenance was afterward the subject of more or less amusement to him, and, if the truth were known, to her daughter.

"When I have said all that I have to say to her, Mrs. Garrison, I'll bring her back to you."

Neither he nor Dorothy uttered a word until they stood before each other in the dark palm-surrounded nook where, on one memorable night, he had felt the first savage blow of the enemy.

"Dorothy, there can no longer be any dissembling. I love you. You have doubtless known it for weeks and weeks. It will avail you nothing to deny that you love me. I have seen—" he was charging, hastily, feverishly.

"I do deny it. How dare you make such an assertion?" she cried, hotly.

"I said it would avail you nothing to deny it, but I expected the denial. You have not forgotten those dear days when we were boy and girl. We both thought they had gone from us forever, but we were mistaken To-day I love you as a man loves, only as a man can love who has but one woman in his world. Sit here beside me, Dorothy."

"I will not!" she exclaimed, trembling in every fiber, but he gently, firmly took her arm and drew her to the wicker bench. "I hate you, Philip Quentin!" she half sobbed, the powerlessness to resist infuriating her beyond expression.

"Forget that I was rough or harsh, dear. Sit still," he cried, as at the word of endearment she attempted to rise.

"You forget yourself! You forget—" was all she could say.

"Why did you refuse to see me this afternoon?" he asked, heedlessly.

"Because I believed you to be what I now know you are," she said, turning on him. quickly, a look of scorn in her eyes.

"Your adorer?" he half-whispered.

"A coward!" she said, slowly, distinctly.

"Coward?'' he gasped, unwilling to believe his ears. "What—I know I may deserve the word now, but—but this afternoon? What do you mean?"

"Your memory is very short."

"Don't speak in riddles, Dorothy," he cried.

"You know how I loathe a coward, and I thought you were a brave man. When I heard—when I was told—O, it does not seem possible that you could be so craven."

"Tell me what you have heard," he said, calmly, divining the truth.

"Why did you let Dickey Savage fight for you last night? Where was your manhood? Why did you slink away from Prince Ravorelli this morning?" she said, intensely.

"Who has told you all this?" he demanded.

"No matter who has told me. You did play the part of a coward. What else can you call it?"

"I did not have the chance to fight last night; your informant's plans went wrong Dickey was my unintentional substitute. As for Ravorelli's challenge this morning, I did not refuse to meet him."

"That is untrue!"

"I declined to fight the duel with him, but I said I would fight as we do at home, with my hands. Would you have me meet him with deadly weapons?"

"I only know that you refused to do so, and that Brussels calls you a coward."

"You would have had me accept his challenge? Answer!"

"You lost every vestige of my respect by refusing to do so."

"Then you wanted me to meet and to kill him," he said, accusingly.

"I—I—Oh, it would not have meant that," she gasped.

"Did you want him to kill me?" he went on, relentlessly.

"They would have prevented the duel! It could not have gone so far as that,"' she said, trembling and terrified.

"You know better than that, Dorothy. I would have killed him had we met. Do you understand? I would have killed the man you expect to marry. Have you thought of that?" She sank back in the seat and looked at him dumbly, horror in her face. "That is one reason why I laughed at his ridiculous challenge. How could I hope to claim the love of the woman whose affianced husband I had slain? I can win you with him alive, but I would have built an insurmountable barrier between us had he died by my hand. Could you have gone to the altar with him if he had killed me?"

"O, Phil," she whispered.

"Another reason why I refused to accept his challenge was that I could not fight a cur."

"Phil Quentin!" she cried, indignantly,

"I came here to tell you the truth about the man you have promised to marry. You shall hear me to the end, too. He is as black a coward, as mean a scoundrel as ever came into the world."

Despite her protests, despite her angry denials, he told her the story of Ugo's plotting, from the hour when he received the mysterious warning to the moment when he entered her home that evening. As he proceeded hotly to paint the prince in colors ugly and revolting she grew calmer, colder. At the end she met his flaming gaze steadily.

"Do you expect me to believe this?" she asked.

"I mean that you shall," he said, imperatively. "It is the truth.'

"If you have finished this vile story you may go. I cannot forgive myself for listening to you. How contemptible you are," she said, arising and facing him with blazing eyes. He came to his feet and met the look of scorn with one which sent conviction to her soul.

"I have told you the truth, Dorothy," he said simply. The light in her eyes changed perceptibly. "You know I am not a liar, and you know I am not a coward. Every drop of blood in my veins sings out its love for you. Rather than see you marry this man I would kill him, as you advise, even though it cost me my happiness. You have heard me out, and you know in your heart that I have told the truth."

"I cannot, I will not believe it! He is the noblest of men, and he loves me. You do not know how he loves me. I will not believe you," she murmured, and he knew his story had found a home. She sank to the seat again and put her hand to her throat, as if choking. Her eyes were upon the strong face above her, and her heart raced back to the hour not far gone when it whispered to itself that she loved the sweetheart of other days.

"Dorothy, do you love me?" he whispered, dropping to her side, taking her hand in his. "Have you not loved me all these days and nights?"

"You must not ask—you must not ask," she whispered.

"But I do ask. You love me?"

"No!" she cried, recovering herself with a mighty effort. "Listen! I did love you—yes, I loved you—until to-day. You filled me with your old self, you conquered and I was grieving myself to madness over it all. But, I do not love you now! You must go! I do not believe what you have said of him and I despise you! Go!"

"Dorothy!" he cried, as she sped past him. "Think what you are saying!"

"Good-by! Go! I hate you!" she cried, and was gone. For a moment he stood as if turned to stone. Then there came a rush of glad life to his heart and he could have shouted in his jubilance.

"God, she loves me! I was not too late! She shall be mine!" He dashed into the house, but the closing of a door upstairs told him she was beyond his reach. The hall was empty; Mrs. Garrison was nowhere to be seen. Filled with the new fire, the new courage, he clutched his hat from the chair on which he had thrown it and rushed forth into the night.

At the top of the steps he met Prince Ugo. The two men stopped stockstill, within a yard of each other, and neither spoke for the longest of minutes.

"You call rather late, prince," said Phil, a double meaning in his words.

"Dog!" hissed the prince.

"Permit me to inform you that Miss Garrison has retired. It will save you the trouble of ringing. Good-night."

He bowed, laughed sarcastically, and was off down the steps. Ravorelli's hand stole to an inside pocket and a moment later the light from the window flashed on a shining thing in his fingers. He did not shoot, but Quentin never knew how near he was to death at the hand of the silent statue that stood there and watched him until he was lost in the shadows. Then the prince put his hand suddenly to his eyes, moaned as if in pain, and slowly descended the steps.



XVII

A FEW MEN AND A WOMAN



A stealthy figure joined his highness at the foot of the steps, coming from the darkness below the veranda. It was Courant. What he said to the prince when they were safely away from the house caused the Italian's face to pale and his hands to twitch with rage. The French detective had heard and understood the conversation of the man and woman on the porch, and he had formed conclusions that drove all doubt from the mind of the noble lover.

Quentin looked up and down the street for his cab. It was not in sight, but he remembered telling the man to drive to the corner below. The rainstorm that had been threatening dry and dusty Brussels all day was beginning to show itself in marked form. There were distant rumbles of thunder and faint flashes of lightning, and now and then the wind, its velocity increasing every minute, dashed a splattering raindrop in one s face. The storm for which the city had been crying was hurling itself along from the sea, and its full fury was almost ready to break. The few pedestrians were scurrying homeward, the tram cars were loaded and many cabs whirled by in the effort to land their fares at home before the rain fell in torrents. Phil drank in the cool, refreshing breeze and cared not if it rained until the streets were flooded. At the corner stood a cab, the driver softly swearing to himself. He swung down and savagely jerked open the door.

"Back to the Bellevue," said the fare airily, as he climbed into the vehicle. The cab had started off into a cross-street, when Phil imagined he heard a shout in the distance. He looked forth but could see no one in the rushing darkness, The rattle of the cab, the growing roar of the night and toe swish of the rain, which was now falling quite heavily, drowned all other sounds and he leaned back contentedly.

Suddenly the cab came to a stop, loud voices were heard outside and he was about to throw open the door when a heavy body was flung against the side of the vehicle. The next instant the half-lowered glass in the door was shattered and a voice from the rainy night cried:

"Don't resist or you will be shot to pieces."

"What the dev—" gasped Quentin, barely able to distinguish the form of a man at the door. Some strange influence told him that the point of a revolver was almost touching his breast and the word died in his mouth.

"No outcry, Monsieur. Your valuables without a struggle. Be quick! There are many of us. You have no chance," came the hard voice, in good English.

"But I have no valuables—"

"Your diamond ring and your watch, at least, monsieur. The ring is in your vest pocket."

"Search me, you scoundrel! I have no ring, and my watch is in my room. I'm mighty slim picking for such noted gentlemen as you. I presume I have the honor of meeting the diamond collectors the town is talking so much about." He was now aware of the presence of another man in the opposite window, and there was the same uncanny feeling that a second revolver was levelled at his person.

"Step outside, Monsieur. It is cruel to force you into the rain, but we assure you it is very refreshing. It will make you grow. Whatever you choose to call us we are wet to the skin. This must not, therefore, be a fruitless job. Step forth, quickly, and do not resist."

Quentin hesitated for an instant, and then seeing resistance was useless, boldly set foot upon the curbing. A flash of lightning revealed four or five men in the group. One of them had the driver covered with a pistol, and two of them were ready to seize the passenger. He observed, with amazement, that one of the men was a policeman in full uniform.

"Officer!" he exclaimed. "Don't you see what they are doing?"

"O, Monsieur," said the spokesman, pleasantly, "you may tell the police of Brussels that they cannot hunt us down until they hunt themselves down. What's that? A carriage? Quick! Your watch, your ring!"

Far down the street could be seen the lamps of an approaching cab, and Quentin's heart took a bound. He had not feared injury, for he was willing to submit to the searching without resistance, but now he thrilled with the excitement of possible conflict. A second flash in the sky revealed altered conditions in the setting of the tragic scene. The driver was on his box and the policeman was climbing up beside him. A short man, masked to the chin, had pushed aside the man with the revolver and a harsh voice cried as the darkness shut out the vivid picture:

"Short work of him! The knife!" "The club, Carl! Hell! Into the cab with him!" shouted another voice, and Phil began to strike out with his fists. But the attack was too sharp, the odds too great. Something crashed down upon his head, he felt himself lunge backward into the open cab door, and then a heavy body hurled itself upon his half-prostrate form. Another stinging blow caught him over the ear, and, as he lost consciousness, a tremendous force seemed to be crushing the breath from his body.

A revolver cracked, but he did not hear it, nor did he know that friends were at hand. Before the miscreants could hurl his body into the cab a vehicle whirled up, the feeble glare from its lanterns throwing light upon the scene. The man who had fired from the door of the second cab leaped to the ground, followed by a companion, and in a moment they were among the scuffling robbers. Whatever might have been the original intentions of Quentin's assailants, they were not prepared to offer battle. Their aim was to escape, not to fight. A couple of shots were fired, a rush of feet ensued and the earth seemed to swallow all but the two newcomers and the limp figure that lay half inside the cab.

In an instant Quentin was drawn from the cab by the taller of the two, the smaller having made a short dash in pursuit of the bandits. Blood rushed from the head of the unconscious man and he was a dead weight in the arms of his rescuer.

"Good God, Phil! Have they killed you? Here, Turk! Never mind those fellows! Come here, quick; we must get him to a surgeon. I'm afraid they've fixed him. Into our cab with him! Gad, he's like a rag!" It was Dickey Savage, and he was filled with dread. Turk, exploding with impotent rage, and shivering with fear that his master was dead, came to his assistance and they were soon racing for the Bellevue. A pair of wondering, patient, driverless horses watched the departure, but they did not move from the spot where they had been checked by the first attack. Across the doubletree behind them hung the limp form of their driver, a great, gaping wound in his head. He had driven them for the last time, and they seemed to know that his cold lips could never again command them to "go on." Driven almost to the hilt, in the floor of the cab, was an ugly knife. Its point had been intended for Quentin's throat, but the hand that struck the blow was not as true as the will of its owner.

In a high state of alarm and excitement the two men in the cab took their friend to his room, their advent creating great commotion in the hotel The wildest curiosity prevailed, and they were besieged with questions from hotel men, guests and the crowd that had found shelter from the storm. Within ten minutes the news was spreading forth over the city that a wealthy American had been held up and murdered by the daring diamond thieves. Police and reporters hurried to the hotel, and the uproar was intense. The house surgeon was soon at work with the bloody, unconscious victim; Savage and Turk, with their friend, the millionaire, keeping the crowd away from the couch. It was impossible to drive the people from the room until the police arrived.

There were two ugly gashes in Quentin's head, one of which, it was feared at first, would disclose a fracture of the skull. Dr. Gassbeck, the surgeon who had attended a wounded prince in the same hotel less that twenty-four hours before, gave out as his opinion that Quentin's injuries were not dangerous unless unexpected complications appeared. Several stitches were taken in each cut, and the patient, slowly recovering from the effects of the blows and the anesthetics, was put to bed by his friends.

Savage observed one thing when he entered the hotel with the wounded man. Prince Ugo and Count Sallaconi were among the first to come forward when the news of the attack spread through the office and corridors. The prince, in fact, was conversing with some gentlemen near the doors when the party entered. It was he who sent messengers to the central police office and who told the detectives where and how he had last seen the victim of the diamond thieves.

Dickey sat all night beside his rolling, moaning friend, unnerved, almost despairing, but the morning brought the change that gladdened his heart and gave him a chance to forget his fears and apprehensions long enough to indulge in an impressive, though inadequate, degree of profanity, with continued reference to a certain set of men whom the world called thieves, but whom he designated as dogs.

About ten o'clock a telegram from Ostend came to the hotel for him. It read: "Are you not coming to Ostend for us? Jane." An hour later a very pretty young lady in Ostend tore a telegram to pieces, sniffed angrily and vowed she would never speak to a certain young man again. His reply to her rather peremptory query by wire was hardly calculated to restore the good humor she had lost in not finding him at the dock. "Cannot come. Awfully sorry. Can't leave Brussels. Hurry on. Will explain here. Richard Savage." Her sister-in-law and fellow-traveler from London was mean enough to tease her with sly references to the beauty of Brussels women and the fickleness of all mankind. And so there was stored away for Mr. Savage's benefit a very cruel surprise.

The morning newspapers carried the story of Quentin's adventure to the Garrison home, and Dorothy's face, almost haggard as the result of a sleepless night, grew whiter still, and her tired eyes filled with dread. She did not have to recall their conversation of the night before, for it had not left her mind, but her thoughts went back to a former conversation in which he had ridiculed the bandits. The newspaper fell from her nerveless fingers, and she left the table, her breakfast untouched, stealing miserably to her room, to escape her mother's inquisitive eyes.

Her wretched state was not improved by the visit of a veiled young woman later in the day. The visitor was undoubtedly a lady, but the story she poured into the unwilling ears was so astounding that Dorothy dismissed her indignantly before it was finished. The low-voiced, intense stranger, young and evidently beautiful, told her that Quentin's injuries were not inflicted by thieves, but by the hired agents of one who had cause to fear him. Before Miss Garrison could remonstrate, the stranger went into the details of a plot so cowardly that she was horrified—horrified all the more because, in a large measure, it sustained the charges made against her lover by Philip Quentin. When at last she could no longer endure the villifying recital she bade the woman to leave the house, hotly refusing to give countenance to the lies she was telling. The stranger desisted only after her abject pleading had drawn from the other a bitter threat to have her ejected by the servants.

"You will not hear me to the end, but you must give me the privilege of saying that I do not come here to do him or you an injury," said the visitor, tremulously. "It is to save you from him and to save him for myself. Mademoiselle, I love him. He would marry me were it not for you. You think jealousy, then, inspired this visit? I admit that jealousy is the foundation, but it does not follow that I am compelled to lie. Everything I have said and would say is true. Perhaps he loves you, but he loved me first. A week ago he told me that he loved me still. It was I who warned the American gentleman against him, and my reason is plain. I want him to win. It would mean death to me if it were known that I came to you with this story. Do you bid me go, or will you hear me to the end?"

"You must go. I cannot listen to the infamous things you say about—about—him," said Dorothy, her voice choking toward the end. A horrible fear seized upon her heart. Was this woman mad or had Quentin told the truth? A new thought came to her and she grasped the woman's hand with convulsive fingers. "You have been sent here by Mr. Quentin! O, how plain it is! Why did I not see through it at once? Go back to your employer and tell him that—" She was crying hysterically when the woman snatched away her hand, and drawing herself to full height interrupted haughtily:

"I have humbled myself that I might do you the greatest service in the world. You drive me from your presence and you call me a liar. All of that I must endure, but I will not suffer you to accuse this innocent man while I have voice to offer up in his defense. I may be some one's slave, but I am not the servant of any man. I do not know this American; he does not know me. I am my own agent and not his tool. What I have tried to tell you is true and I confess my actions have been inspired by selfish motives. Mademoiselle, the man you are to marry promised to make me his wife long before he knew you."

"To make you his wife? Absurd! Men of his station do not marry, nor promise to marry, the grisettes or the—"

"'Madam! It is not a grisette to whom you are speaking. The blood in my veins is as noble as that which flows in his, the name I bear—and perhaps disgrace, God help me!—is as proud as any in all France. But I have not millions, as you have. My face, my person may win and hold the heart, but I have not the gold with which to buy the soul. You will pardon my intrusion and you will forgive me for any pang I have caused. He would not harken to the appeals from my breaking heart, he would not give me all his love. There was left but one course to preserve what rightfully belongs to me, and I have followed it as a last resort Were you to tell him that a woman came to you with this story, he would deny everything, and he would be lost to me, even though you cast him off in the end. It is not in my power to command you to protect the woman who is trying to help you. You do not believe what I have told to you, therefore I cannot hope for pity at your hands. You will tell him that I have been here, and I shall pay the penalty for being the fool, the mad woman. I am not asking for pity. If I have lied to you I deserve nothing but the hardest punishment. You have one way to punish me for the wounds I inflict, but it is the same to me, no matter how it ends. If you marry him, I am lost; if you cast him off and yet tell him that it was I who first sowed the seed of distrust in your heart, I am lost. It will be the same—all the same! If he cannot wed you, he will come to me and I will forgive. Madam, he is not good enough for you, but he is all the world to me. He would wed you, but you are not the one he loves. You are all the world to one whose love is pure and honest. If you would save him, become his wife. O, Mademoiselle, it grieves me so to see the tears in those good eyes of yours! Farewell, and God bless and keep you."



XVIII

ARRIVALS FROM LONDON



Lady Saxondale and the young person with the stored-up wrath were met at the Gare du Nord by Mr. Savage, all smiles and good spirits. Quentin was rounding-to nicely, and there was little danger from complications. This fact coupled with the joy of seeing the girl who had been able to make him feel that life was not a shallow dream, sent him up to the two ladies with outstretched hands, a dancing heart and a greeting that brought smiles to the faces of crusty fellow-creatures who had not smiled in weeks.

With a deference due to premeditated gallantry, he shook hands first with Lady Frances. His ebullition almost swept him to the point of greeting the two maids who stood respectfully near their mistresses. Then he turned his beaming face upon the Arctic individual with the pink parasol and the palm-leaf fan.

"Awfully sorry, Lady Jane, but I really couldn't get to Ostend. You didn't have any trouble getting the right train and all that, did you?" he asked, vaguely feeling for the hand which had not been extended.

"Not in the least, Mr. Savage. We delight in traveling alone. Do you see the baroness anywhere, Frances?" Mr. Savage stared in amazement. A distinct, blighting frost settled over the whole September world and his smile lost all but its breadth. The joy left his eyes and his heart like a flash, but his lips helplessly, witlessly maintained a wide-open hospitality until long after the inspiration was dead.

"She is not here, I am afraid," responded Lady Saxondale, glancing through the hurrying crowd. "Have you seen the Baroness St. Auge, Mr. Savage? Or do you know her?"

"I can't say that I have—er—I mean don't—no, I should say both," murmured he distractedly. "Does she live here?"

"She resides in a house, not in a railway station," observed Lady Jane, with a cutting sarcasm of which she was rather proud. Lady Saxondale turned her face away and buried a convulsive smile in her handkerchief.

"I mean in Brussels," floundered Dickey, his wits in the wind. He was gazing dumbly at the profile of the slim iceberg tnat had so sharply sent the blast of winter across the summer of his content.

"She certainly understood that we were to come on this train, Frances. You telegraphed her," said Lady Jane, ignoring him completely. She raised herself on her dainty tiptoes, elevated her round little chin and tried to peer over the heads of a very tall and disobliging multitude. Dickey, at a loss for words, stretched his neck also in search of the woman he did not know.

"How very annoying," said Lady Saxon-dale, a faint frown on her brow. "She is usually so punctual."

"Perhaps she—er—didn't get your telegram," ventured Dickey. "What sort of a looking—I mean, is she old or young?"

"Neither; she is just my age," smiled Lady Saxondale. Dickey dumbly permitted the rare chance for a compliment to slip by. "Jane, won't you and Mr. Savage undertake a search for her? I will give William directions regarding the luggage." She turned to the man and the maids, and Mr. Savage and Lady Disdain were left to work out their salvation as best they could.

"I can't think of troubling you, Mr. Savage. It won't be necessary for you to dodge around in this crowd to—"

"No trouble, I assure you, Lady Jane. Be glad to do it, in fact. Where shall we go first?" demanded he, considerably flurried.

"You go that way and I'll go this. We'll find her more easily," said she, relentlessly, indicating the directions.

"But I don't know her," he cried.

"How unfortunate! Would you know her if I were to describe her to you? Well, she's tall and very fair. She's also beautiful. She's quite stunning. I'm sure you'll know her." She was starting away when he confronted her desperately.

"You'll have to go with me. I'll be arrested for addressing the wrong lady if I go alone, and you'll suffer the mortification of seeing them drag me off to jail."

"The what? Why do you say mortification, Mr. Savage? I am quite sure—"

"O, come now, Jane—aw—Lady Jane—what do you mean by that? What's all the row about? What has happened?" he cried.

"I don't understand you, Mr. Savage."

"Something's wrong, or you'd seem happier to see me, that's all," he said, helplessly. "Lord, all my troubles come at once. Phil is half dead, perhaps all dead, by this time—and here you come along, adding misery instead of—"

"Phil—Mr. Quentin—what did you say, Dickey?" she cried, her haughty reserve fading like a flash.

"Don't you know?" he cried. "Almost killed last night by—by robbers. Slugged him nearly to a finish. Horrible gashes—eight stitches"—he was blurting out excitedly, but she clasped his arm convulsively and fairly dragged him to where Lady Saxondale stood.

"Oh, Dickey! They didn't kill—he won't die, will he? Why didn't you tell us before? Why didn't you telegraph?" she cried, and there was no wrath in the thumping, terrified little heart. Lady Saxondale turned quickly upon hearing the excited words of the girl who but a moment before had been the personification of reserve.

"What are you saying, Jane? Is there anything wrong?" she asked.

"Everything is wrong—Philip is dead!" cried Lady Jane, ready to faint. "Dickey says there are eight gashes, and that he is all dead! Why don't you tell us about it, Dickey?"

"He's all right—not dead at all. Robber's held him up last night during the storm, and if help hadn't come just when it did they'd have made short work of him. But I can't tell you about it here, you know. If you'll allow me I'll take a look for the baroness."

"I'll go with you," said Lady Jane, enthusiastically. "Dickey," she went on as they hurried away, "I forgive you."

"Forgive me for what?" he asked.

"For not coming to Ostend," demurely.

"You really wanted me to come, did you, Jane?"

"Yes, after I had been goose enough to telegraph to you, you know. You don't know how small I felt when you did not come," she hurried out, but his merry laugh cut short the humiliating confession.

"And that was why you—"

"Yes, that was why. Don't say another word about it, though. I was such a horrid little fool, and I am so ashamed of myself. And you were so worried all the time about dear Mr. Quentin," she pleaded, penitently.

"You might have known that nothing short of death could have prevented me from coming to Ostend," said he softly. "But I've all sorts of news to tell you. When I tell you about the duel you'll go into convulsions; when you hear—"

"A duel? Good heavens, how—I mean who—" she gasped, her eyes wider than ever.

"'I don't know how, but I do know who. Jane, I have shot a man!" he said, impressively.

"Oh, oh, oh! Dickey!" she almost shrieked, coming helplessly to a standstill, a dozen emotions crowding themselves into her pretty, bewildered face.

"Don't faint! I'll tell you all about it—to-night, eh?" he said, hastily. He was vastly afraid she might topple over in a swoon.

"I can't wait!" she gasped. "And I will not faint. You must tell me all about it this instant. Is the other man—is he—where is he?"

"He's in a hospital. Everybody's staring at us. What a fool I was to say anything about it, I won't tell you another word of it."

"Oh, Dickey, please!" she implored. He was obdurate and her manner changed suddenly. With blighting scorn she exclaimed, "I don't believe a word you've said."

"O, now, that's hardly a nice way—" he began, indignantly, catching himself luckily before floundering into her trap. "You will have to wait, just the same, Miss Lady Jane Oldham. Just now we are supposed to be searching for a baroness who is good enough to come to railway stations, you'll remember. Have you seen her?"

At this juncture Lady Saxondale's voice was heard behind them, and there were traces of laughter in the tones.

"Are you waiting for the mountain to come to you? Here is the baroness, delayed by an accident to her victoria." Mr. Savage was presented to the handsome, rather dashing lady, whose smile was as broad and significant as that which still left traces about Lady Saxondale's lips. He bowed deeply to hide the red in his cheeks and the confusion in his eyes. His companion, on the other hand, greeted the stranger so effusively that he found it possible during the moments of merry chatter to regain a fair proportion of his lost composure.

The Baroness St. Auge was an English woman, famed as a whip, a golfer and an entertainer. Her salon was one of the most interesting, the most delightful in Brussels; her husband and her rollicking little boys were not a whit less attractive than herself, and her household was the wonder of that gay, careless city. The baron, a middle-aged Belgian of wealth, was as merry a nobleman as ever set forth to seek the pleasures of life. His board was known as the most bountiful, his home the cheeriest and most hospitable, his horses the best bred in all Brussels. He loved his wife and indulged her every whim, and she adored him. Theirs was a home in which the laugh seldom gave way to the frown, where happiness dwelt undisturbed and merriment kept the rafters twitching. With them the two London women were to stop until after the wedding. Saxondale was to visit his grim old castle in Luxemburg for several days before coming up to Brussels, and he was not to leave England for another week. Baron St. Auge was looking over his estates in the north of Belgium, but was expected home before the week's end.

Mr. Savage was in an unusual flutter of exhilaration when he rushed into Quentin's presence soon after the ladies drove away from the Gare du Nord. The baroness had warmly insisted that he come that evening to regale them with the story of the robbery and the account of the duel, a faint and tantalizing rumor of which had come to her ears.

"The baroness lives on the Avenue Louise, old man," he said, after he had described her glowingly. A long, cool drink ran down his dry throat before his listener, propped up in his bed and looking upon his friend with somber eyes, deigned to break the silence.

"So you are to tell them about the duel Dickey," he said, slowly.

"They're crazy about it."

"I thought it was to be kept as dark as possible." Dickey's jaw dropped and his eyes lost their gleam of satisfaction.

"By thunder, I—I forgot that!" he exclaimed. "What am I to do?" he went on after a moment of perplexity and dismay. The long, cool drink seemed to have left a disagreeable taste in his mouth and he gulped feebly.

"Commit suicide, I should say. I see no other way out of it," advised the man in the bed, soberly. The misery in Dickey's face was beyond description, and the perspiration that stood on his brow came not from the heat of the day.

"Did you ever know a bigger ass than I, Phil? Now, did you, honestly?" he groaned.

"I believe I can outrank you myself, Dickey. It seems to me we are out of our class when it comes to diplomacy. Give Lady Saxondale and Lady Jane my compliments to-night, and tell them I hope to see them before I sail for home."

"What's that?" in astonishment.

"Before I sail for home."

"Going to give it up, are you?"

"She thinks I'm a liar, so what is the use?"

"You didn't talk that way this morning. You swore she believed everything you said and that she cares for you. Anything happened since then?"

"Nothing but the opportunity to think it all over while these bandages hold my brain in one place. Her mind is made up and I can't change it, truth or no truth. She'll never know what a villian Ravorelli—or Pavesi—is until it is too late."

"You'll feel better to-morrow, old man. The stitches hurt like the devil, don't they? Cheer up, old chap; I'm the one who needs encouragement. See what I have to face to-night. Good lord, there'll be three women, at least—maybe a dozen—begging, commanding me to tell all about that confounded shooting match, and I was getting along so nicely with her, too," he concluded, dolefully.

"With the baroness? On such short acquaintance?"

"No, of course not. With Jane Oldham. I don't know how I'm going to square it with her, by jove, I don't. Say, I'll bet my head I bray in my sleep, don't I? That's the kind of an ass I am."

When he looked listlessly into Quentin's room late that evening he wore the air of a martyr, but he was confident he had scored a triumph in diplomacy. Diplomacy in his estimation, was the dignified synonym for lying. For an hour he had lied like a trooper to three women; he left them struggling with the conviction that all the rest of the world lied and he alone told the truth. With the perspiration of despair on his brow, he had convinced them that there had been no real duel—just a trifling conflict, in which he, being a good Yankee, had come off with a moderate victory. Lady Jane believed; Lady Saxondale was more or less skeptical; while the Baroness, although graciously accepting his story as it came from his blundering lips, did not believe a word of it. His story of the "robbery" was told so readily and so graphically that it could not be doubted.

Like true women, Lady Saxondale and her sister, accompanied by their hostess and her brother, Colonel Denslow, seized the first favorable opportunity to call at the rooms of Mr. Quentin. They found him the next morning sitting up in a comfortable chair, the picture of desolation, notwithstanding the mighty efforts of Dickey Savage and the convivial millionaire. The arrival of the party put new life into the situation, and it was not long before Phil found his spirits soaring skyward.

"Tell me the truth about this awful duel," commanded Lady Saxondale, after Dickey had collected the other members of the party about a table to which tall glasses with small stems were brought at his call.

"I'm afraid Dickey has been a bit too loquacious," said he, smilingly.

"He fibs so wretchedly, you know. One could see he had been told what not to say. You can trust me, Phil," she said, earnestly. And he told her all, from beginning to end. Not once did she interrupt, and but seldom did she allow horror to show itself in her clear, brave eyes.

"And she will go on and marry this man, Phil. I am afraid she cannot be convinced—or will not, I should say," she said, slowly, at the end of the recital. "What a villain, what a coward he is!"

"But she must not be sacrificed, Frances! She must be saved. Good God, can't something be done to drag her from the clutches of that scoundrel?" he almost groaned.

"The clutches of her mother are more cious than those of the prince. There is the power that dominates. Can it be broken?"

"As well try to break down the Rocky Mountains. That woman has no heart—no soul, I'll swear. Dorothy has a mind and a will of her own, though, Frances. I feel that she loves me—something tells me she does, but she will not break this hateful compact. I am sure that I saw love in her eyes that last night, heard it in her voice, felt it in the way she dismissed me."

"You made a mistake when you denounced him to her. It was but natural for her to defend him."

"I know it, but I was driven to it. I saw no other way. She accused me of cowardice. Good heavens, I'd give my soul to be up now and able to call that villain's bluff. But I am in here for a week, at least, and the wedding is only two weeks away. When is Bob coming?" he cried, feverishly.

"Be calm, Phil. You will gain nothing by working yourself into a frenzy. Bob will come when I send for him. It shall be at once, if you have need for him here."

"I want him immediately, but I cannot ask him or you to mix in this miserable game. There may be a scandal and I won't drag you all into it," he said, dejectedly.

"I'll send for Bob, just the same, dear boy. What are friends for, pray?"

She left him with the firm and secret determination to carry the war for friendship's sake to the very door of Dorothy Garrison's stubborn heart, and that without delay.



XIX

THE DAY OF THE WEDDING



When Lord Bob reached Brussels on Friday he found affairs in a sorry shape. His wife's never-failing serenity was in a sad state of collapse. Quentin was showing wonderful signs of recuperation, and it almost required lock and key to keep him from breaking forth into the wildest indiscretions. Gradually and somewhat disconnectedly he became acquainted with existing conditions. He first learned that his wife had carried Quentin's banner boldly up to the walls of the fortress, and then—well, Lady Saxondale's pride was very much hurt by what happened there. Miss Garrison was exceedingly polite, but quite ungrateful for the kindness that was being bestowed upon her. She assured her ladyship that she was making no mistake in marrying Prince Ravorelli, and, if she were, she alone would suffer.

"I am so furious with her, Bob, for marrying Prince Ugo that I am not going to the wedding," said Lady Saxondale.

"Whew! That's a bracer! But, by the way, my dear, did you introduce any real proof that he is the scoundrel you say he is? Seems to me the poor girl is right in the stand she takes. She wants proof, and positive proof, you know. I don't blame her. How the deuce can she break it off with the fellow on the flimsy excuse that Phil Quentin and Lady Saxondale say he is a rascal? You've all been acting like a tribe of ninnies, if you'll pardon my saying so."

"She is sensible enough to know that we would not misrepresent matters to her in such a serious case as this," she retorted.

"What proof have you that Ravorelli is a villain?"

"Good heavens, Bob, did he not try to have Phil murdered?" she exclaimed, pityingly.

"Do you know that to be a positive fact?"

"Phil and Mr. Savage are quite thoroughly convinced."

"But if anyone asked you to go on to the witness stand and swear that Prince Ugo tried to take the life of Philip Quentin, could you do so?" he persisted.

"You goose, I was not an eye-witness. How could I swear to such a thing?"

"Well, if I understand the situation correctly, Miss Garrison is the judge, Ravorelli the accused, and you are one of the witnesses. Now, really, dear, how far do you imagine your hearsay evidence—which is no evidence at all—goes with the fair magistrate? What would be your verdict if some one were to come to you and say, 'Saxondale is a blackguard, a rascal, a cutthroat?'"

"I confess I'd say it was not true," she said, turning quite red.

"The chances are you wouldn't even ask for proof. So, you see, Miss Garrison behaved very generously when she condescended to hear your assertions instead of instructing the servant to direct you to the door."

"She was above reproach, Bob. I never saw anyone so calm, so composed and so frigidly agreeable. If she had shown the faintest sign of anger, displeasure or even disgust, I could forgive her, but she acted just as if she were tolerating me rather than to lower herself to the point of seriously considering a word I uttered. I know the prince is a villian. I believe every word Phil says about him." She took Lord Bob's hands in hers, and her deep, earnest eyes burnt conviction into his brain.

"And so do I Frances I am as sure that Ugo is a scoundrel as if I had personal knowledge of his transactions. In fact, I have never believed in him. You and I will stand together, dear, in this fight for poor old Phil, and, by the Lord Harry, they'll find us worth backing to the finish. If there's anything to be done that can be done, we'll do it, my girl." And he was amply repaid for his loyal declaration by the love that shone refulgent from her eyes.

Quentin naturally chafed under the restraint. There was nothing he could do, nothing his friends could do, to avert the disaster that was daily drawing nearer. Lord Bob infused a momentary spark of hope into the dying fire of his courage, but even the resourceful Briton admitted that the prospect was too gloomy to warrant the slightest encouragement. They could gain absolutely no headway against the prince, for there was no actual proof to be had. To find the strange woman who gave the first warning to Quentin was out of the question. Turk had watched every movement of the prince and his aides in the hope of in some way securing a clue to her identity or whereabouts. There was but one proposition left; the purchase of Courant.

This plan seemed feasible until Turk reported, after diligent search, that the French detective could not be found. Dickey was for buying the two Italian noblemen, but that seemed out of the question, and it was unreasonable to suspect that the other hirelings recognized the prince as their real employer. The slightest move to approach the two noblemen might prove disastrous, and wisdom cut off Dickey's glorious scheme to give each of them "a hundred dollars to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

Quentin at last burst all bonds, and, finding himself out of the doctor's hands, determined to make a last desperate appeal to Dorothy Garrison. If that appeal failed, he would then give up the struggle; he would at least end the suspense. He knew how difficult it would be to obtain an audience with her, but he went ahead with the confidence of the drowning man, the boldness of the man who is wounded to the death but does not know it.

It was the Wednesday just one week before the wedding that saw the pale-faced, tall and somewhat unsteady American deliberately leave his cab and stride manfully up the steps of a certain mansion in the Avenue Louise. Miss Garrison was "not at home," and her mother was "not at home." So said the obsequious footman.

''Take my card to Miss Garrison," said Quentin, coolly. The man looked bewildered and was protesting that his young mistress was not in the house when the lady herself appeared at the top of the broad stairway. Phil stood in the center of the hall watching her as she slowly descended the steps. At the bottom of the steps she paused. Neither spoke, neither smiled, for the crisis was upon them. If he were pale from the loss of blood, she was white with the aches from a fever-consumed heart.

"Why have you come?" she asked, at last, her voice so low that the words scarcely reached his ears.

''Dorothy," was all he said.

"You knew what I must say to you before you entered the door. Will you let me tell you how deeply I have grieved over your misfortune? Are you quite wise in coming out before you have the strength? You are so pale, so weak. Won't you go back to your—to your hotel and save yourself all the pain that will come to you here?" There was pity in her eyes, entreaty in her voice, and he was enveloped in the tender warmth of her sincerity. Never had she seemed so near as now, and yet never so far away.

"Dorothy, you must know what manner of love it is that brings me to plead for the smallest crumb of what has been once refused. I come simply, in all humility, with outstretched hands to ask your love." He drew nearer, and she did not retreat.

"Oh, it is so useless—so hopeless, Phil," she said, softly. "Why will you persist? I cannot grant even the crumb."

"I love you, Dorothy," he cried passionately.

"Oh! Phil; you must understand that I can give you nothing—absolutely nothing. For God's sake—for my sake, for the sake of that dear friendship we own together, go away and forget—forget everything," she said, piteously.

A half-hour later he slowly descended the steps, staggering like a man sick unto death. She sat where he left her, her wide, dry eyes seeing nothing, her ears hearing nothing but the words his love had forced her to utter. These words:

"Yes, heaven help me, I do care for you. But, go! Go! I can never see you again. I shall keep the bargain I have made, if I die at the altar. I cannot break my promise to him." And all his pleading could not break down that decision—not even when she found herself for one brief, terrible instant in his straining arms, his lips upon hers.

It was all over. He calmly told his friends, as he had told her, that he would sail for New York on the first steamer, and Turk reluctantly began to pack the things. The night before he was to leave for Hamburg, the Saxondales, Lady Jane and Savage sat with him long into the night. Prince Ugo's watchdogs were not long in discovering the sudden turn affairs had taken, and he was gleefully celebrating the capitulation.

The next day the Saxondales accompanied the two Americans to the railway station, bade them a fond farewell and hastened back to the home of the Baron St. Auge with new resolutions in their hearts. The forepart of the ensuing week saw their departure from Brussels. Deliberately they turned their backs on the great wedding that was to come, and as if scorning it completely, journeyed to Lord Bob's ruins in Luxemburg, preferring the picturesque solitude of the tumbledown castle to the empty spectacle at St. Gudule. Brussels may have wondered at their strange leave-taking on the eve of the wedding, but no explanation was offered by the departing ones.

When Dorothy Garrison heard that Philip Quentin had started for the United States she felt a chill of regret sink suddenly into her soul, and it would not be driven forth. She went on to the very night that was to make her a princess, with the steel in her heart, but the world did not know it was there. There was no faltering, no wavering, no outward sign of the emotions which surged within. She was to be a princess! But when the Saxondales turned their faces from her, spurning the invitation to her wedding, the pride in her heart suffered. That was a blow she had not expected. It was like an accusation, a reproach.

Little Lady Jane blissfully carried with her to the valley of the Alzette the consciousness that Richard Savage was very much in love with her, even though he had not found courage to tell her so in plain words. A telegram from him stating that he and Quentin had taken passage for New York and would sail on the following day dispelled the hope that he might return.

Brussels was full of notables. The newspapers of two continents were fairly blazing with details of the wedding. There were portraits of the bride and groom, and the bishop, and pictures of the gowns, the hats, the jewels; there were biographies of the noted beauty and the man she was to marry. The Brussels papers teemed with the arrivals of distinguished guests.

Overcoming Mrs. Garrison's objections, Dorothy had insisted on and obtained special permission to have a night wedding. She had dreamed of the lights, the splendor, the brilliancy of an after-sunset wedding and would not be satisfied until all barriers were put aside.

Dorothy's uncle, Henry Van Dykman, her mother's brother, and a number of elated New York relatives came to the Belgian capital, shedding their American opulence as the sun throws out its light. The skill of a general was required to direct, manage and control the pageant of the sixteenth. Thousands of dollars were tossed into the cauldron of social ambition by the lavish mother, who, from behind an army of lieutenants, directed the preliminary maneuvers.

The day came at last and St. Gudule's presented a scene so bewilderingly, so dazzlingly glorious that all Brussels blinked its eyes and was awed into silence. The church gleamed with the wealth of the universe, it seemed, and no words could describe the brilliancy of the occasion. The hour of this woman's triumph had come, the hour of the Italian conqueror had come, the hour of the victim had come.

In front of the house in the Avenue Louise, an hour before the beginning of the ceremony, there stood the landau that was to take the bride to the cathedral. Carriage after carriage passed, bearing the visitors from the new world, to the church. All were gone save the bride, her mother and her uncle. Down the carpeted steps and across to the door of the carriage came Dorothy and her uncle, followed by the genius of the hour. At the last moment Dorothy shuddered, turned sick and faint for an instant, as she thought of a ship far out at sea.

The footman swung up beside the driver, and they were off by quiet streets toward the church where waited all impatient, the vast assemblage and the triumphant prince. The silence inside the carriage was like that of the tomb. What were the thoughts of the occupants could not well be described.

"Are we not almost there, Dorothy?" nervously asked her mother, after many minutes. "Good heavens! We are late! O, what shall we do?" cried she in despair. In an instant the somber silence of the cab's interior was lost. The girl forgot her prayer in the horror of the discovery that there was to be a hitch in the well-planned arrangements. Her mother frantically pulled aside the curtains and looked out, fondly expecting to see the lights of St. Gudule on the hill. Uncle Henry dropped his watch in his nervousness and was all confusion.

"We are not near the church, my—why, where are we? I have never seen these houses before. Henry, Henry, call to the driver! He has lost his way. My heavens, be quick!"

It was not necessary to hail the driver, for at that instant the carriage came to a sudden standstill. The door opened quickly, and before the eyes of the astonished occupants loomed the form of a masked man. In his hand he held a revolver.



XX

WITH STRANGE COMPANIONS



"A word, a sound and I fire!" came the cold, hard voice of the man in the mask. He spoke in French. The trio sat petrified, speechless, breathless. So sudden, so stunning was the shock to their senses that they were as graven images for the moment. There was no impulse to scream, to resist; they had no power to da either.

"We will injure no one unless there is an outcry or a struggle. Monsieur, Madame, there is no occasion for alarm; no more is there a chance to escape," said the mask quietly. Three pairs of eyes looked dumbly into the gleaming holes in the black mask that covered his face.

"The police?" finally whispered Mrs. Garrison, coming slowly out of her stupor.

"Silence, madame! You are not to speak. Faint if you like; we will not object to that and it may be a relief to you," said the man, sarcastically gallant. "I must ask you to make room for me inside the carriage. We cannot remain here; the police may come this way—I mean those who are not engaged in guarding the grand cathedral to which you were going." He was inside the carriage and sitting beside Dorothy when he concluded the last observation. With a shudder she drew away from him. "Pardon, Mademoiselle, I must implore you to endure my presence here for a time. We have quite a distance to travel together."

A nameless dread sent chills to the hearts which had begun to thump wildly in the reaction. What did he mean?

"What are you going to do with us?" groaned the horrified mother. The carriage was now moving rapidly over the pavement.

"In due time you may know, Madame; you have only to be patient. For the moment, it is necessary that you keep perfectly quiet. Although you are a woman, I shall have to kill you if you disobey my commands. We take desperate chances to-night in the coup which shall make all Europe ring with the crowning act of the great diamond robbers, as you are pleased to call us; and we can brook no resistance. You see my revolver, Monsieur, it is on a direct line with your breast. You are Americans, I am told, and your people are noted for coolness, for discretion under trying circumstances. Your women are as brave as your men. I merely ask you to call your courage—"

"You shall not go on, monster," exclaimed Mrs. Garrison, fiercely. "Do you know who we are? Surely you are not inhuman enough to—"

"Madame! I warn you for the last time. You must be reasonable. Resistance, argument, pleading will avail you nothing. If you desire to discuss the situation calmly, sensibly, you may do so, but you are to go only so far as I see fit. Will you remember?" There was no mistaking the earnestness of the speaker. Mrs. Garrison realized that she was absolutely powerless, completely at the mercy of the bold intruder.

"What must we pay, then, for our freedom? Name the price, man. Order your men to drive us to St. Gudule's and anything you ask is yours. I implore you to be generous. Think, Monsieur, think what this means to us!" she said, desperately.

"I am not at liberty to dictate terms, Madame. It is only my duty to carry out my part of the transaction; another will make terms with you."

"But when? When? We cannot be delayed a moment longer. The hour has already passed when my daughter should be before the altar. For God's sake, name your price. I will pay, I will pay," sobbed the half-crazed woman

"Sir, do you know what you are doing?" demanded the quaking old man, finding his voice at last. "You must listen to reason. Think of yourself, if not of us. What will become of you when you are caught? Pause in this awful crime and think—"

"You are kind; Monsieur, to advise me, but it is too late."

"Will you take us to St. Gudule's?" cried the elder woman, on the verge of collapse. "I will give you all you ask, Monsieur."

"Ten thousand dollars is yours if you abandon this damnable—" began Mr. Van Dykman.

"It will avail nothing to offer me money," interrupted the master of the situation, harshly. "That is the end of it. Believe me, money is not what we are after to-night. To-morrow, perhaps, it may tempt us."

"What do you mean to do with us?" cried the girl, horror in her voice.

"We do not mean to harm you, Mademoiselle, if you are sensible and do as we command."

"But the wedding, the wedding!" moaned Mrs. Garrison. "What will they think of us? O, Monsieur, if you are one of the great diamond robbers I willingly give all that I have about me. On my person there are jewels valued at many thousand—"

"Another word, Madame, and I shall be obliged to use force," said the man, leaning forward, threateningly. In the darkness they could feel the menace in his eyes.

"You are determined to go on with this outrage?" asked Van Dykman.

"A coup so well planned as this cannot be given up, Monsieur. We flatter ourselves that no such job has ever graced the history of Europe," said the stranger, pleasantly. "Down in your hearts, I believe you will some day express admiration for the way in which the abduction has been managed."

"Abduction?" gasped Mrs. Garrison. Dorothy sank back into the corner at that word and it seemed to her that her heart would never beat again.

"Where do you mean to take us, and what is your object?" slowly asked Mrs. Garrison, a peculiar sense of resignation coming over her. It was as if she recognized the utter hopelessness of escape from the hands of these skillful wretches. She now saw that the mind which had planned the capture was one that could carry the game to the end without a flaw in the operations.

"I can answer neither question, Madame. Suffice to say that you are rich and we are poor. I leave the rest for your imagination. It grieves us, of course, to mar the grand wedding of to-night, but you will readily understand that at no other time could we find you so well prepared. Truly, I wonder what they are doing in St. Gudule."

"My coachman, my footman, my servants, it seems, are your accomplices," said Mrs. Garrison, steadily.

"Not at all, Madame. To-morrow your coachman and your footman will be found where we confined them. The men here have never been in your employ. I could recommend them to you, however; they are most trusty, faithful fellows, and they would be loyal to you to the death."

"For God's sake, where are we?" burst forth Mr. Van Dykman, unable to control his fear longer.

"We are near the edge of the city, and will soon be beyond the limits. I must command absolute silence for the next half-hour. Not a word must be spoken as we are passing a point of danger. Do not permit hope of rescue to enter your minds, however, for there is no chance. I may enlighten you by saying that the revolvers I carry work safely, quietly and very effectually. Will you join me, in a half-hour's silent consideration of the scenes that are now taking place in old St. Gudule? I am sure there is no limit to the imagination when we give over our thoughts to that subject."

Whatever may have been the desire to shriek, to call for help, to tear away the window curtains, the three helpless captives were unable to break through the influence this lone bandit spread about them. The thought of St. Gudule, of the great gathering, of the impatience, the consternation, the sensation occasioned by the non-arrival of the bride, brought madness to the brains of the hapless trio. Like a vivid panorama they saw everything that was going on in the church. They saw alarm in faces of those closely interested in the wedding, heard the vague rumors and questionings, the order for the search, the report of accident, and then—the police and newspapers!

At last the carriage came to a stop and the footman swung down from the seat, opening the door quickly. That they were far beyond the streets of the city was apparent in the oppressive stillness, broken only by the heavy panting of the horses. "This is the place," came in the coarse voice of the footman. "We have no time to lose."

"Then I must ask you to get down, Monsieur, and the ladies. We are about to enter a house for a short while, the better to complete the details of our little transactions. Remember, no noise means no violence Be quick, please." Thus spoke the man in the seat, who an instant later stepped forth into the darkness. The trembling, sobbing women dragged themselves to the ground, their gorgeous gowns trailing in the dust, unthought of and unprotected. Mr. Van Dykman, old as he was, took courage in the momentary relaxation, and attempted to halloo for help. A heavy hand was clasped over his mouth and strong arms subdued his show of resistance. Swiftly across a short stretch of ground they went, up rickety steps and into the black hallway of a house. There were stifled moans of terror on the lips of the two women, but there was no resistance save the weight their strengthless forms imposed upon the men who had them in charge. There was no light in the house and no sign that it was occupied by others than themselves.

"We remain here for several hours. If all goes well, you will then be at liberty to depart for your home in the city. Here is a chair, Madam. Pray be seated. Pardon our inability to give you a light. You will be patient, I am sure, when it is said on the sacred word of a gentleman that no harm is to come to you. It is only necessary that you remain quiet and await the hour when we are ready to release you. I must ask permission to lock the door of this room. Before dawn your friends will be here to take you away in safety. Everything has been arranged for your personal welfare and comfort. Permit me to say goodnight."

"Where are we?" demanded the old man.

"Why have you brought us here?" asked Mrs. Garrison from the arm chair into which she had limply fallen.

"You will learn everything in good time. We shall be just outside the door, and will respond promptly if you need our help to the extent of shouting for it. In the meantime your horses and carriage are being well cared for. Be of good heart and your night will not be a long one. Believe me, I hope we may meet again under more pleasing conditions."

The door closed a second later and the key clicked. Then came the shooting of a bolt, a short scuffling of feet, and the silence of the dead reigned over the strange house. Overcome with dread, the occupants of the room uttered no word, no sound for what seemed to them an hour. Then Mrs. Garrison, real tenderness in her voice, called softly to her daughter.

"Darling, can you find me in this darkness? Come to me. Let me hold you close in my arms, Dorothy, poor, poor child."

But there was no response to the appeal, nor to a second and a third call. The mother sprang to her feet in sudden terror, her heart fluttering wildly.

"Henry! Are you here? Where is—what nas happened to Dorothy?" she cried. A trembling old man and a frantic woman bumped against each other in the darkness and the search began. There were but two people in the room! Following this alarming discovery one of these persons swooned and the other battered, like a madman, against the heavy, stubborn door.

Far away in the night bowled a carriage drawn by sturdy horses. The clouds broke and the vain fell. Thunder and lightning ran rampant in the skies, but nothing served to lessen the speed of that swift flight over the highways leading into the sleep-ridden country. Inside the cab, not the one in which Dorothy Garrison had begun her journey to the altar, but another and less pretentious, sat the grim desperado and a half-dead woman. Whither they flew no one knew save the man who held the reins over the plunging horses. How long their journey—well, it was to have an end.

True to the promise made by the bandit, a clattering band of horsemen dashed up to the lonely house at the break of dawn. They were led by Prince Ugo Ravorelli, dishevelled, half-crazed. A shivering woman in silks and a cowering old man sobbed with joy when the rescuers burst through the door. Tacked to a panel in the door was an ominous, ghost-like paper on which was printed the following message from the night just gone:

"In time the one who is missing shall be returned to the arms of her mother, absolutely unharmed. She will be well cared for by those who have her in charge. After a reasonable length of time her friends will be informed as to the terms on which she may be restored to them."

Mrs. Garrison, more dead than alive, was conveyed to her home in the Avenue Louise, there to recover her strength with astonishing quickness. This vastly purposeful, indomitable woman, before many hours had passed, was calmly listening to plans for the capture of her daring abductors and the release of her daughter. Friends, overcome with the horror of the hour, flocked to her aid and comfort; the government offered its assistance and the police went to work as one massive sleuth-hound. Newspapers all over the world fairly staggered under the burden of news they carried to their readers, and people everywhere stood aghast at the most audacious outrage in the annals of latter-day crime.

As completely lost as if the earth had swallowed them were the diamond robbers—for all the world accepted them as the perpetrators—and their fair prize. No one saw the carriage after it turned off the Avenue Louise on the night of the abduction; no one saw the party leave the lonely house in the country. A placard found on the steps of a prominent citizen's home at an early hour in the morning told the frenzied searchers where to look for the mother and the uncle of the missing girl.

A reward of 100,000 francs for the arrest of the abductors or the return of Miss Garrison was offered at once by the stony-faced woman in the Avenue Louise, and detectives flew about like bees. Every city in the land was warned to be on the lookout, every village was watched, every train and station was guarded. Nine in every ten detectives maintained that she was still in Brussels, and house after house, mansion after mansion was searched.

Three days after the abduction word came from London that four men and a young woman, apparently insane, all roughly attired, had come to that city from Ostend, and had disappeared before the officials were fully cognizant of their arrival. The woman, according to the statements of men who saw her on the train, was beautiful and pale as with the sickness that promised death.



XXI

THE HOME OF THE BRIGANDS



It was past midnight, after a wild ride through the storm, when an old gentleman and his wife, with their sick daughter, boarded a fast eastbound train at Namur. Had the officers of the law known of the abduction at that hour it would have been an easy matter to discover that the loose-flowing gown which enveloped the almost unconscious, partially veiled daughter, hid a garment of silk so fine that the whole world had read columns concerning its beauty. The gray beard of the rather distinguished old man could have been removed: at a single grasp, while the wife, also veiled, wore the clothing of a man underneath the skirts. The father and mother were all attention to their unfortunate child, who looked into their faces with wide, hopeless eyes and uttered no word of complaint, no sound of pain.

At a small station some miles from the border line of the grand duchy of Luxemburg, the party left the coach and were met by a carriage in which they whirled away in the darkness that comes just before dawn. The horses flew swiftly toward the line that separates Belgium from the grand duchy, and the sun was barely above the bank of trees on the highlands in the east when the carriage of the impetuous travelers drew up in front of a picturesque roadside inn just across the boundary. The sweat-flecked horses were quickly stabled and the occupants of the vehicle were comfortably and safely quartered in a darkened room overlooking the highway.

So ill was the daughter, explained the father, that she was not to be disturbed on any account or pretext. Fatigued by the long ride from their home in the north, she was unable to continue the journey to Luxemburg until she had had a day of rest. At the big city she was to be placed in the care of the most noted of surgeons. Full of compassion, the keeper of the inn and his good wife did all in their power to carry out the wishes of the distressed father, particularly as he was free with his purse. It did not strike them as peculiar that the coachman remained at the stable closely, and that early in the day his horses were attached to the mud-covered carriage, as if ready for a start on the notice of a moment. The good man and his wife and the few peasants who were told of the suffering guest, in order that they might talk in lowered voices and refrain from disturbing noises, did not know that the "mother" of the girl sat behind the curtains of an upstairs window watching the road in both directions, a revolver on the sill.

The fact that the strange party decided to depart for Luxemburg just before nightfall did not create surprise in their simple breasts, for had not the anxious father said they would start as soon as his daughter felt equal to the journey? So eager were they to deliver her over to the great doctor who alone could save her life. With a crack of the whip and a gruff shout of farewell to the gaping stableboy who had been his companion for a day, the driver of the early morning coach whirled into the road and off toward the city of precipices. No one about the inn knew who the brief sojourners were, nor did they know whence they came. The stableboy noted the letter S blazoned on the blinds of the horses' bridles, but there were no letters on the carriage. There had been, but there was evidence that they had been unskillfully removed.

Late in the night the coachman pulled rein and a man on horseback rode up, opened the door and softly inquired after the welfare of the occupants. With a command to follow, he rode away through a narrow, uncertain wagon path. When the way became rough and dangerous, he dismounted and climbed to the boot of the cab, the coachman going to the empty saddle. Half an hour later the new coachman stopped the puffing horses in front of a great, black shadow from which, here and there, lights beamed cheerfully. From the back of the vehicle the two men unstrapped the heavy steamer trunk which had come all the way from Brussels with the party, and then the doors of the big shadow opened and closed behind Dorothy Garrison and her captors. So skillfully and so audaciously were the plans of the abductors carried out that when Miss Garrison entered a room set apart for her in the great house, after passing through long, grotesque and ill-lighted corridors, she found an open trunk full of garments she had expected to wear on her wedding journey!

A trim and pretty English maid entered the room the instant it was vacated by the gray-bearded man and the tall person who had posed as his wife. While Dorothy sat like a statue, gazing upon her, the young woman lighted other candles in the apartment and then came to the side of the mute, wretched newcomer.

"Will you let me prepare you for bed, miss? It is very late, and you must be tired. Would you like anything to eat before retiring?" she asked, as quietly as if she had been in her service forever.

"In heaven's name, where am I? Tell me what does it all mean? What are they going to do with me?" cried Dorothy, hoarsely, clutching the girl's hand.

"You could not be in safer hands, Miss Garrison," said the maid, kindly. "I am here to do all that is your pleasure."

"All? Then I implore you to aid me in getting from—" began Dorothy, excitedly, coming to her unsteady feet.

"I am loyal to others as well as to you," interposed the maid, firmly. "To-morrow you will find that—but, there, I must say no more. Your bedchamber is off here, Miss. You will let me prepare you for the sleep you need so much? No harm can come to you here."