At last, in despair, she left Lady Saxondale and her companion in the courtyard and started up the stairs, resolved to be as far as possible from the sound of that cough. Quentin met her at the foot of the steps.

"I'm going to lie down awhile," he said, wearily. "They seem to be worried about this confounded cold, and I'll satisfy them by packing myself away in bed."

"You should be very careful, Phil," she said, a suffocating feeling in her throat. "Your cough is frightful, and they say you have a fever. Do be reasonable."

"Dorothy," he said, pausing before her at the steps, his voice full of entreaty, "tell me you don't despise me. Oh! I long to have you say one tender word to me, to have one gentle look from your eyes."

"I am very sorry you are suffering, Philip," she said, steeling her heart against the weakness that threatened.

"Won't you believe I have done all this because I love you and——" he was saying, passionately, but she interposed.

"Don't! Don't, Phil! I was forgetting a little—yes, I was forgetting a little, but you bring back all the ugly thoughts. I cannot forget and I will not forgive. You love me, I know, and you have been a kind jailer, but you must not expect to regain my respect and love—yes, it was love up to the morning I saw you in the dining-room of this castle."

"I'll create a new love in your heart, Dorothy," he cried. "The old love may be dead, but a new one shall grow up in its place. You do not feel toward me to-day as you did a week ago. I have made some headway against the force of your hatred. It will take time to win completely; I would not have you succumb too soon. But, just as sure as there is a God, you will love me some day for the love that made me a criminal in the eyes of the world. I love you, Dorothy; I love you!"

"It is too late. You have destroyed the power to love. Phil, I cannot forgive you. Could I love you unless full forgiveness paved the way?"

"There is nothing to forgive, as you will some day confess. You will thank and forgive me for what I have done." A fit of coughing caused him to lean against the stair rail, a paroxysm of pain crossing his face as he sought to temper the violence of the spell.

"You should have a doctor," she cried, in alarm. He smiled cheerlessly.

"Send for the court physician," he said, derisively, "The king of evil-doers has the chills and fever, they say. Is my face hot Dorothy?"

She hesitated for a moment, then impulsively placed her cool hand against his flushed forehead. Despite her will, there was a caress in the simple act, and his bright eyes gleamed with gladness. His hand met hers as it was lowered from the hot brow, and his lips touched the fingers softly.

"Ah, the fever, the fever!" he exclaimed, passionately.

"You should have a doctor," she muttered, as if powerless to frame other words.



XXVII

THE FLIGHT WITH THE PRIEST



Eleven o'clock that night found Castle Craneycrow wrapped in the stillness of death. Its inmates were awake, but they were petrified, paralyzed by the discovery that Dorothy Garrison was gone. Scared eyes looked upon white faces, and there was upon the heart of each the clutch of an icy hand. So appalling was the sensation that the five conspirators breathed not nor spoke, but listened for the heartbeats that had stopped when fears finally gave way to complete conviction. They were as if recovering from the fright of seeing a ghost; spirits seemed to have swept past them with cold wings, carrying off the prisoner they thought secure; only supernatural forces could be charged with the penetration of their impregnable wall.

The discovery of the prisoner's flight was not made until Baker knocked on Lady Saxondale's door and inquired for Miss Garrison at bedtime. Then it was recalled that she had left the others at nine o'clock, pleading a headache, but she did not go to her room. Investigation revealed the fact that her jewelry, a cape and a traveling hat were missing. Remembering her first attempt to escape and recalling the very apparent nervousness that marked her demeanor during the day, Lady Saxondale alarmed the house.

Ten minutes later the conspirators and a knot of sleepy servants stood in the courtyard, staring at the great gate. It was closed but unlocked. There were but two known keys to the big lock, and since the arrival of the party at the castle they had not been out of Lord Saxondale's possession. The girl could not have used either of them and the lock had not been forced; what wonder, then, that in the first moments of bewilderment they shrank back as if opposed by the supernatural?

No one present had seen her leave the castle, and there was no way of telling how long she had been gone, except that it was not longer than two hours. After the first shock of realization, however, the men came to the conclusion that assistance had come from the outside, or that there was a traitor on the inside. They were excitedly questioning the long-trusted servants when Lady Jane made a second discovery.

"Where is Turk?" she cried, and every eye swept through the group.

"Gone, by God!" exclaimed Quentin, in helpless amazement. No one had given thought to his illness in the excitement of the moment. He had been called forth with the rest, and when he coughed not even he took note of the fact. This was no time to think of colds and fevers and such a trifling thing as death. He shivered, but it was not with the chill of a sick man; it was the shiver of fear.

"Good Lord, he can't be the one! Turk would die for me!" he cried, almost piteously.

"He is gone, and so is she," grated Lord Bob. "What are we to infer? He has sold us out, Quentin; that's the truth of it."

''I'm damned!" almost wept Dickey Savage. "They'll have a pack of officers here before morning. I don't give a hoot for myself, but Lady Saxondale and—"

"Great heaven! what have I brought you to in my folly?" groaned Quentin, covering his face with his hands.

"Open the gate!" called a hoarse voice outside the wall, and every heart stopped beating, every face went white. A heavy boot crashed against the gate.

"The officers!" whispered Lady Jane, in terror. Dickey Savage's arm went round her.

"Let me in! Git a move on!'

"It's Turk!" roared Quentin, springing toward the gate. An instant later Turk was sprawling inside the circle of light shed by the lantern, and a half-dozen voices were hurling questions at him.

The little man was in a sorry plight. He was dirt-covered and bloody, and he was so full of blasphemy that he choked in suppressing it.

"Where is she? Where have you been?" cried Quentin, shaking him violently in his agitation.

"Gimme time, gimme time!" panted Turk. "I've got to git my breath, ain't I? She's flew th' coop, an' I couldn't head her off. Say, has a priest been loafin' aroun' here lately?"

"A priest!" cried Lord Bob. "There hasn't been one here since Father Bivot came three years ago to—"

"I mean this week, not t'ree years ago. She's gone with a priest, an' I'm nex' to who he is, too. He ain't no more priest 'n I am. It's that French detective, Courant, an' he's worked us to a fare-you-well. He's th' boy!"

This startling news threw the party into deeper consternation than before. The little ex-burglar was not a fluent talker at best, but he now excelled himself in brevity. In three minutes he had concluded his story, and preparations were well under way for the pursuit.

He was, according to his narrative, sitting in the lower end of the courtyard about nine o'clock, calmly smoking his pipe, when his attention was caught by the long, shrill call of a night bird. No such sound had come to his ears during his stay at the castle, and his curiosity was aroused. Not dreaming of what was to follow, he slowly walked toward the front of the castle. A woman stood in the shadow of the wall near the gate. Hardly had his eyes made out the dim figure when the whistle was repeated. Before he fully grasped the situation, the big gate swung slowly inward and another figure, at first glance that of a woman, stood inside the wall. He heard the woman call softly: "Is that you, Father?" A man's voice replied, but the words were too low to be distinguished. The woman drew back as if to return to the house, but the newcomer was at her side, and his hand was on her arm.

There was a moment of indecision, then resistance, two or three sharp words from the man, and then the two seemed to fade through the wall. The ponderous gate was closing before the dumbfounded watcher could collect his wits. Like a shot he was across the stones, now alive to the meaning of the strange proceeding. With desperate hands he grasped the bar of the gate and pulled, uttering a loud shout of alarm at the same time. Surprised by the sudden interference, the man on the other side gave way and Turk was through the opening and upon him. A stunning blow on the head met him as he hurled himself forward, and he plunged headlong to the ground. As he struggled to his feet another blow fell, and then all was darkness.

When he opened his eyes again two figures were careening down the steep path, a hundred yards away. They were running, and were plainly distinguishable in the moonlight. Turk knew that the woman was Dorothy Garrison. He had heard her cry, after the first blow, "Don't! Don't kill him, Father! It is Turk!" Crazed with anger and determined to recapture her single-handed, Turk neglected to call for help. With the blood streaming down his face, he dashed off in pursuit. There was in his heart the desire to kill the man who had struck him down. Near the foot of the hill he came up with them and he was like a wildcat.

Miss Garrison had fallen to her knees and was moaning as if in pain. The priest crouched behind her, protecting his person from a possible shot from the pursuer. "For God's sake, don't shoot him!" screamed the girl, but a moment later there was a flash of light, a report, and a pistol ball whizzed by Turk's ear. He was unarmed, but he did not stop. Throwing himself forward, he stretched out his arms to grasp the crouching priest, hoping to prevent the firing of another shot. But he had not reckoned on the cleverness of the man at bay. The priest dropped flat to the ground and Turk plunged over his body, wildly clutching for the prostrate man as he went. With the cunning of a fox, the priest, on realizing that he could not avoid a personal conflict, had looked about for means to end the pursuit effectually.

Retarded in his progress by the tired, trembling girl, he saw that a stand against the oncomer was unavoidable. He cleverly selected the spot for this stand, and braced himself as for the onslaught. Scarcely a yard beyond his position there was a sharp declivity among the rocks, with a clear drop of a dozen feet or more to the bottom of a wide crevasse. His shot went wild and he could not repeat it, for Dorothy was frantically clutching his arm. The strategem worked well, and he had the satisfaction of hearing a mighty oath as Turk, unable to check himself, slipped from the edge and went crashing to the rocks below.

With the speed of a hunted animal, the priest leaped to his feet, dragging the girl after him, and a harsh laugh came from his throat as they dashed onward. A quick glance behind showed there had been but one pursuer, and the man in the robes of holiness chuckled exultantly. But, if Dorothy Garrison believed him to be the priest his robes declared, the moonlight told the fallen Turk the truth. Indeed, it was the intentness with which the little ex-burglar gazed upon the white face of Courant that prevented him from seeing the ledge as he dashed up to the couple.

How long it was afterward that Turk came to his senses and crawled back to the roadway, dizzy, weak and defeated, he knew not. He could only groan and gnash his teeth when he stood erect again and saw that he was utterly alone. Courant and the girl were gone. In shame and humiliation he climbed the hill to call for help.

Just as the searching party was about to rush recklessly from the courtyard, servants having been instructed to bring out the horses, Lady Jane espied a white piece of paper on the ground near the gate. And then it was that they read the parting message from the girl who was gone. With a trembling voice Lady Saxondale read:

"I have found a way, and I am going, if nothing prevents. With the help of my good angel I shall soon be far from this place. A holy man in passing saw my signal of distress and promised rescue. You have been good to me, and I can only repay you by refusing to expose you. This priest does not know who you are. I shall not tell him or any who may be with him. No one shall ever know from me that you were my abductors. God grant that you may never have to pay the penalty. Go, while you may, for the truth may become known without my help, and I may not be able to save you. Save yourselves, all of you. I mean Philip Quentin, too, because I know he loves me.

"Dorothy."

Philip Quentin took the forlorn, even distressed, message from the hands of Lady Saxondale, kissed it devoutly, and placed it in his pocket.

"Philip is too ill to go out on this desperate chase," cried Lady Saxondale.

"Ill! I'll die if I am not gone from here in five minutes! Great Lord, Bob, those fools have been an hour getting the horses!" groaned Quentin, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

"Don't get excited, Phil; keep your head. You're not fit to be running about in a business like this, but all Christendom couldn't stop you. It may be a wild goose chase, after all," said Lord Bob.

"She's been carried back to the accursed villain who employs Courant, and I'll die before I'll let him have her. Oh, what fools we've been!"

"Here's a puzzler, old man," said Dickey. "Why was not Ugo here to help Courant if he knew anything about the fellow's actions? By cracky, I don't believe Ugo knows anything about the Frenchman's find."

"He owns Courant, body and soul!"

"That jacky is out for the hundred thousand francs, and he's working on his own hook this time, my boy. He's after the reward, and he's the only one that has been keen enough to find us out. Mark me, he is working alone.

"Sure, he is," added Turk. "He's got no pardners in th' job, er he'd a' had em along to-night. S'pose he'd run into a gang like this alone if he had anybody t' fall back on? Not on your life. We're a mighty tough gang, an' he takes no chances with us if he's workin' fer anybody else."

"We're not a tough gang!" wailed Lady Jane, in tears. "Oh, what will become of us!"

"The Lord only knows, if we fail to get both Dorothy and Courant," said Quentin, in real anguish.

"They may be in Luxemburg by this time," said Saxondale. "Gad, this is working in the dark!"

"That road down there don't go t' Luxemburg direct, m' lord," quickly interposed Turk. "It goes off into th' hills, don't you remember? An' then out th' valley some place 'way to th' north. If he'd been goin' to th' city he'd 'a' taken th' road back here an' kep' from goin' down th' hill."

"You're right, Turk," exclaimed Lord Bob. "He has gone up the valley, headed for one of the little towns, and will steer clear of the Luxemburg officers for fear they may demand a part of the reward."

"God, Saxondale, are those horses never coming?" fumed Quentin. "I won't wait!" and he was off like a madman through the gate and down the steep. Behind him tore Turk, the faithful.



XXVIII

THE GAME OF THE PRIEST



When Turk pitched over the crouching form of the priest and into the dark chasm beyond Dorothy for the first time began to appreciate the character of her cowled rescuer. Panting and terrified, she looked into his hideously exultant face as he rose and peered over the ledge after the luckless pursuer. It was not the face of a holy man of God, but that of a creature who could laugh in the taking of a human life.

"Come on!" he cried, grasping her by the wrist with no gentle regard. "He's out of the way, but we have no time to lose. The others may miss you at any moment, and we must be in the wood if we hope to fool them."

"I have changed my mind—" she began, holding back as he dragged her after him down the slope.

"It is too late," he said, harshly. "You will soon be with your friends, my child. Do not lose heart, but trust to me."

"Who are you? You are not a priest. Why have you disguised yourself—"

"Not so loud, my child, not so loud! They may have guards even here. If I am not a priest, then may heaven shut its gates on me forever. Because I am a man and have undone one of your enemies, you should not question my calling. It is no time for prayer. When we are safe from pursuit, you will regret the doubt you have just expressed. Trust to me, my child. But run, for God's sake, run! Don't hang back when all depends on our speed in the next half-hour."

"Where are you taking me? Answer, or I shall refuse to go another step with you!" she exclaimed, now thoroughly aroused and determined.

"My wagon is hitched in the wood over there. In it we will go to a town up the valley, where I have the promise of help. I could have brought a big force of men with me, but don't you see what a mistake it would have been? Rather than surrender you to a force they would have killed you and secreted your body in the passages under the castle. It is commonly known that the cellars are paved with skeletons." Here Dorothy shuddered in recollection. "Strategy was the only means of getting you out safely."

"They would not have killed me," she cried, breathlessly. They were moving rapidly along the level roadway now, and his grip on her wrist was like a clasp of iron.

"To save themselves? Of course, they would—as they would a dog!" he said.

"They are my friends, and they are the best, the truest in the world," she gasped, eager to keep the promise of protection made in the farewell note.

"You think they are, madam, but how could they treat you as they have if they are friends?" He had turned into the wood, and it was necessary to proceed more cautiously on account of the darkness. She realized that she had erred in saying they were friends, and turned cold with apprehension.

"I mean, they treated me well—for criminals," she managed to say.

"Criminals!" he snarled. "Bah! Of course they are criminals of the worst kind, but they will never be punished."

"I'm afraid they are so clever that no one will ever find out who they really are."

He stopped with a lurch, and she could feel that he was looking at her in amazement.

"I know who they are, and you know them, too," he said, slowly. "Perhaps nobody else knows, but we know that my Lord and Lady Saxondale and the two Americans were your abductors. The man I dumped into the ravine was that little villain Turk."

Her heart almost stopped beating with the shock of knowing that nothing could now shield her captors from exposure.

"But—but it will be very hard to prove," she said, hoarsely, almost defiantly.

"You have only to take oath," he said, meaningly.

"I don't know the name or face of a person in that castle," she said, deliberately. He was silent for a full minute.

"You intend to shield them?" he demanded. There was no answer to the question. Now she was positive that the man was no priest, but some one who knew the world and who had made it his business to trace her and her captors to the very gates of the castle. If he knew, then others must also be in possession of the secret.

"Who are you?" she demanded, as he drew her deeper into the wood. There was now the wild desire to escape from her rescuer and to fly back to the kindly jailers on the hill.

"A poor priest, by the grace of God," he said, and she heard him chuckle.

"Take me back to the road, sir!" she commanded.

"I will take you to your mother," he said, "and to no one else."

"But I am afraid of you," she exclaimed, her courage going. "I don't know you—I don't know where you are taking me."

"We will not go far to-night. I know a place where you can hide until I secure help from the city."

"But you said you had a wagon."

"The horse must have strayed away, worse luck!" said he, with a raucous laugh.

She broke from his grasp suddenly, and like a frightened deer was off through the darkness knowing not whither she went or what moment she might crash against a tree. The flight was a short one. She heard him curse savagely as he leaped upon her from behind after a chase of a few rods, and then she swooned dead away.

When she regained consciousness a faint glow of light met her eyes as the lids feebly lifted themselves from their torpor. Gradually there came to her nostrils a dank, musty odor and then the smell of tobacco smoke. She was lying on her back, and her eyes at last began to take in broad rafters and cobwebby timbers not far above her head. The light was so dim that shadows and not real objects seemed to constitute the surroundings. Then there grew the certainty that she was not alone in this dismal place. Turning her head slightly, she was able, with some effort, to distinguish the figure of a man seated on the opposite side of the low, square room, his back against the wall, his legs outstretched. At his elbow, on a box, burned a candle, flickering and feeble in its worthlessness. He was smoking a pipe, and there was about him an air of contentment and security.

Slowly past events crowded themselves into the path of memory, and her brain took them up as if they were parts of a dream. For many minutes she was perfectly quiet, dumbly contemplating the stranger who sat guard over her in that wretched place. In her mind there was quickly developed, as one brings the picture from the film of a negative the truth of the situation. She had escaped from one set of captors only to give herself into the clutches of others a thousand times more detestable, infinitely more evil-hearted.

"You've come back to life, have you?"

She started violently and shivered as with a mighty chill at the sound of these words. They came from the slouching smoker.

"Where am I?" she cried, sitting up, a dizzy whirling in her head Her bed was no more than a heavy piece of old carpet.

"In the house of your friends," laconically responded the voice, now quite familiar. Her eyes swept the room in search of the priest. His robes lay in a heap across her feet. "Where is Father Paul?" she demanded. "He is no more," said the man, in sombre tones. "I was he until an hour ago."

"And you are no priest? Ah, God help me, what have I done? What have I come to in my miserable folly?" she cried, covering her face with her hands.

"Look here, Miss Garrison," said the man, quietly. "I am no priest, but you have nothing to fear because of that fact. The truth is, I am a detective. For a month I was in the employ of Prince Ravorelli, and it was no honest business, I can tell you. What I have done to-night is straight and honest. I mean you no harm, and you have but to follow my instructions in order to find yourself safe in Brussels once more. I have been interested in a number of queer transactions but let me say this in my own defence: I was never employed in any game so detestable, so low, as the one your noble prince was playing when you were snatched away from him. The only regret I have in taking you back to your mother comes from the fear that you may go ahead and marry that knave."

Dorothy was listening, with wide eyes and bated breath, to the words of the lounging smoker.

"I will never, never marry him," she cried, vehemently.

"Stick to that resolve, my child," said Courant, with mock benevolence. "He is a scoundrel, and I cut loose from him to do this little job down here on my own responsibility."

"Tell me, if you know, did he plan to kill Mr. Quentin? I must have the truth," she cried, eagerly.

"He did worse than that. He made the attempt, or rather his agents did. You see, Quentin was a dangerous rival because he knew too much."

"I don't understand."

"Well, he knew all about the prince when he was with the opera company in Brazil. I can't tell you much about it, but there was a murder committed over there and your prince was believed to be guilty. A woman was killed, I believe. Quentin knew all about it, it seems."

"And never told me?" she cried.

"He was not positive, I suppose. There was the danger of being mistaken, and this American friend of yours seems honest. He only told you what he knew to be a fact, I conclude."

"Yesterday I heard that a woman had been murdered in Brussels, a woman who came to warn me against the prince. Do you know who killed her?"

"Good God! Has she been killed? Ah, I knew it would come; he was obliged to get rid of her. I did not know of her death, but I leave you to guess who was responsible for it. God, he is a devil! You owe a great deal, Mademoiselle, to the clever men who stole you from him."

"Alas, I am beginning to know it, now that it is too late. And he was ill when I stole away to-night. I implore you, take me back to the castle!" she pleaded, her heart wrung by the anguish in her soul.

"So he is in the castle, eh? Just as I thought. I'd like to take you to him, especially as he is ill, but I must take care of number one. When I dropped out of one villain's employment I went into business for myself. You see, there is about 100,000 francs reward for you, and there is the same for the bodies of the abductors. If I turn you over to your mother or her agents—not the prince, by the way—I earn the reward. If I can procure the arrest of your abductors I get double the amount. You see how unbusiness-like it would be if I were to let my sympathies get the better of me."

"But I will give you 100,000 francs if you will take me back to the castle," she cried, standing before him.

"Have you the money with you?"

"Of course I have not, but it shall be yours as soon as I can—"

"Pardon. You are worth nothing to me in that castle, and you will bring a fortune in Brussels."

In vain she pleaded with the stubborn detective, finally threatening him with dire punishment if he refused to accede to her demands. Then he arose in sudden wrath, cursing her roundly and vowing she should not leave the room alive if she persisted in such threats. He told her that she was in a cave beneath the ruins of an old church, long the haunt of robbers, now the home of snakes and bats. Indeed, as he spoke a flittermouse scurried through the air within a foot of her ear.

"We rest here until to-morrow night, and then we start out to walk. You cannot be seen in that dress, either. I have clothing here in this box for you to wear. My dear young lady, you must make believe that you are my younger brother for a day or two, at least."

A look of horror came into her face, succeeded by the deep red of insulted modesty, and then the white of indignation.

"I will die first, you wretch!" she exclaimed. In that moment she believed she could have killed the smiling rogue with her own hands.

"We shall see," he said, roughly. "Look at them; they are respectable in cut and they are clean." He drew the garments from the box, piece by piece, and held them before her flaming face. "I'm going out to take a look about the valley. You are quite safe here. No one knows where you are, and the robbers have been dead for twenty years. One of them still has his skeleton in the room just off this one, but he is a harmless old fellow. In an hour I will return, and we will eat. It is now three o'clock, and the sun will soon be rising. To-night we venture forth as brothers, remember."

He pulled his cap down over his eyes, buttoned his coat about his throat, changed a revolver from one pocket to another, and deliberately stalked across the room to the narrow door. An instant later she heard the key rasp in the lock and she was alone.

"Oh, heaven, if Philip Quentin could see me now! If he could but hear my sobs and see my tears! How he would rejoice, how he would laugh, how he would pity me. This is your triumph, Philip Quentin, but you are not here to claim the wretched victory. Fool! Fool! Fool!"

She had thrown herself face downward on the patch of carpet and was writhing in the agony of fear and regret. Suddenly there came to her ears the distant report of a firearm, the rush of feet and then something heavy crashed against the little door. She was on her feet in an instant, cowering in the far corner of the room, her face among the cobwebs. Panic seized her, and she screamed aloud in her terror. Outside the door there were sounds of a savage struggle, but they rapidly became indistinct, and finally passed beyond hearing altogether. She ran to the door and pounded on it with hands that knew not the bruises they were acquiring, and she moaned in the fear that the rescuers, for such they surely must be, were leaving her behind.

"Phil! Phil!" she cried again and again. But there suddenly came to her a terrifying thought, and she fell back, cold and voiceless. Ugo! What if he had at last run the treacherous Courant to earth? What if the rescuer were he?

She slunk away from the door, the dampness of dread sending a chill to her heart. And when again the rush of footsteps brought a heavy body against the door, she had not the voice to cry out, so sure was she that Ugo Ravorelli was coming to her in that dismal hole.

Then the door gave way, and Philip Quentin came plunging into the room, hatless, coatless, his shirt in shreds. The mighty draft of air from the open door killed the sickly candle-flame, but not before they had seen each other. For the second time that night she lost consciousness.

At the bottom of a deep ravine lay the body of Courant. He had fled from before the two adversaries after a vain attempt to reenter the room below the church and had blindly dashed over the cliff. Turk, with more charity than Courant had shown not many hours before, climbed down the dangerous steep, and, in horror, touched his quivering hand. Then came the last gasp.



XXIX

DOROTHY'S SOLUTION



Quentin carried her forth into the night. When Turk came upon him in the darkness a few minutes later, he was wandering about the hilltop, the limp figure of the woman he loved in his arms, calling upon her to speak to him, to forgive him. The little man checked him just in time to prevent an ugly fall over a steep embankment.

"My God, she's dead, Turk!" he groaned, placing her tenderly on the grassy sward and supporting her head with his arm. "The wretch has killed her."

"He's paid for it, if he did. I guess it's nothin' but a faint er a fit. Does she have fits?" demanded Turk, earnestly. Quentin paid no heed to him, but feverishly began working with her, hope springing from Turk's surmise.

"Turk, if she dies, I swear to God I'll kill myself this night!" cried he.

"You're talkin' crazy, sir. She's comin' around all right, all right. Hear that? Her eyes'll be busy in a minute, and she'll be askin' where she's at. Just keeled over, that's all. All women does that w'en they git's as glad as she wuz. They faint 'cause it's easier'n it is to tell how much obliged they are. I know 'em. They pass up hard jobs like that ontil they gits time t' look all pale an' interestin' an' tuckered-out, an' then they ain't no use sayin' much obliged, 'cause th' man won't stand fer it a minute."

Turk was kneeling opposite Quentin and was scratching match after match, holding them above the pale face until they burnt his finger tips. When Dorothy at last opened her eyes she looked into the most terrifying face she had ever seen, and, as the lids closed again spasmodically, a moan came from her lips. Turk's bristled face was covered with blood that had dried hours ago, and he was a most uncanny object to look upon. "Darn me, she's askeert of my mug! I'll duck ontil you puts her nex'."

"Look up Dorothy! It is Phil! Don't be afraid, dearest; you are safe!" He knew that her eyes were open again, although it was too dark to see them.

"Is it you, Phil?" she whispered.

"Yes, yes!"

"Where is—where is he?" in terror.

"He cannot harm you now. He is gone."

"But I saw his face just now. Oh, you are not telling me the truth!"

"You saw Turk's face, dearest. What a time we had in finding you! But you are safe now, thank God!"

She lay very still, striving to convince herself that she was awake and that she was really listening to Philip Quentin's voice, hoarse and eager. Her hand went to his face, impulsively searching for the features her eyes could not see. Strong ringers seized it, and dry, burning lips kissed it again and again—lips parched with fever. The heart of the woman asserted itself at once, and concern succeeded perplexity.

"Oh, Phil, you are ill—you should not be here!" she cried, in distress, and, before he could prevent she was on her feet, swaying dizzily.

"Then you are not hurt!" he cried. "Thank God for that!" His arm was about her waist, and a wave of security and contentment rolled through her being.

"Take me back to the castle, Phil," she said, simply. "You will never know how unhappy I have been, how I have blamed myself for running away as I did. But, oh, I thought he was a priest, and I wanted to prove that you could not keep me there."

"You do not have to stay there, Dorothy," he said, slowly.

"What do you mean?"

"I have been a fool, an ingrate, a brute, but I will atone if it is possible. In your note you said you would forgive the others. I don't ask pardon for myself, but I implore you to shield them. Perhaps it is too late; this detective has exposed us—"

"He swore to me that he had not, but he knows everything, and may carry the word to the authorities," she interrupted, in distress.

"The secret is safe if he worked alone, for he is dead. Don't be frightened; he fell over a cliff in the darkness. Turk!"

"Here, sir."

"We must get back to the castle as soon as possible. It is five miles, at least. Try to find a trap of some sort at once. Miss Garrison cannot walk that distance."

"But I can and will," she objected. "I am not hurt and I am stronger than you."

"Nonsense! I'm all right. I will return with you to Brussels to-morrow. Your imprisonment is at an end. There is no need for you to think again of escape, for you are free to go at this moment. Come back to Lady Saxondale for a while, though, and when you are able to go with me we will take the train for Brussels. Believe me, I am sorry, but I am not fool enough to ask you to forgive. I don't deserve pardon, perhaps, but I know that my heart was in the right and that I saved you from a much worse bondage than that which you have spent in Castle Craneycrow."

As if in a dream, she walked with him through the first faint light of the dawning day, stunned by the unexpected words he had uttered. In her mind there began to grow, rebelliously, the fear that he would do as he said! Turk, following close behind, suddenly gave a loud shout and sped away like a flash in front of them.

"It's Mr. Savage," he yelled back to the startled couple, "an' he's on horseback! Hi, there!"

As Dickey Savage came plunging up the slope, roaring with excited joy, she said to Ouentin, her voice low and intense:

"I know now that you saved me from a worse fate than death, Phil, and, if you ask, I will forgive as I hope you will forgive me. Courant was Ugo's tool, and I had the truth from him. You are the truest, the best of friends, and I should—"

"Stop, Dorothy! Not now, some day, when you are home, after you have had time to think over all that I have done, right and wrong, I may come to you with the question I will not ask now. What I have sinned for, if you want to call it that, I will sue for some other day when the world is looking on. I will not make my prisoner pay penalty without a trial."

"I want you to know that I do not hate you," she argued, persistently.

"But you hated me yesterday."

"I did not."

Just then Dickey pounced upon them, and, as they hurried to the spot where Turk was holding the newcomer's horse, Phil briefly told how he and the little ex-burglar had accidentally stumbled upon the hiding-place of the pseudo priest after hours of hopeless search. The two pursuers, tired and despairing, were lying on the ground in front of the church ruins, taking a few moments of rest before climbing to the summit of the hill, when the luckless Courant ventured forth. With quick intuition, Turk called out the detective's name, and the ruse worked. The man they could not see gave a snort of dismay and turned to reenter the door. And then came his undoing.

Turk was the general who planned the return to the castle. He insisted that Quentin, who was very weak, take Miss Garrison upon the horse's back and ride, while he and Savage walked. In this way they reached the gates of Craneycrow. It was like the home-coming of loved ones who had been absent for years. Three women were in tears, and all of the men were in smiles. Quentin's was the smile of one bordering on delirium, however. A chill broke over him, and the fever in his body renewed its disputed sway. An hour later he was in bed, and Turk, dispatched by Dorothy Garrison, was riding to the nearest town for a physician, much against the wishes of the sick man. He stubbornly insisted that he would start with her for Brussels within twenty-four hours, and it was not until the doctor told him that he was in extreme danger of pneumonia that he consented to keep to his bed.

Resolutely he checked all desire to cry his love into the ear of the gentle nurse who sat with him for hours. He would not grant himself the slightest deviation from the course he had sworn to follow, and he suffered more from restraint than from fever. She found herself longing for the moment when he would call her to him and pour out the love that would not be denied. He never spoke but she hoped for signs of surrender; he never looked at her that she did not expect his lips to utter the story his eyes were telling, What he endured in that week of fever, under the strain of love's nursing, only he could have told—and he told nothing. How she hungered for the luxury of one word, only she knew—and confessed unconsciously.

Had the doctor told her that he was critically ill, she would have cast all restraint aside and wrung from him the words he was holding back. But the unromantic little doctor calmly broke the fever, subdued the congestion, relieved the cough and told them that the "young man would be quite well in a few days if he took good care of himself."

The days of convalescence were few, for the vigorous strength of the patient had not been sapped to any great extent. They were days of happiness, however, for all who lived in Castle Craneycrow. Dickey and Lady Jane solemnly and somewhat defiantly approached Lord Bob on a very important matter. He solemnly and discreetly gave his consent, and Dickey promised to be very, very good to her so long as he lived. One day a real priest, Father Bivot, came to the castle gates to solicit alms for the poor of the neighborhood. He was admitted, refreshed and made glad by a single donation that surpassed in size the combined contributions of a whole valley. It was from him that they learned, with no little uneasiness of mind, that the body of Courant had been found, and that it had been identified by the Luxemburg authorities. The cause of his death was a mystery that defied solution, however.

The news that Courant had been found and identified made Quentin all the more eager to carry out his design to restore Dorothy to her mother. He knew, and all knew, that it was but a question of a few days until Ugo and the police would put two and two together and come racing into the valley, certain that Courant had been killed by the abductors of Dorothy Garrison.

One morning, therefore, shortly after the visit of Father Bivot, he asked Lord Saxondale for the use of a conveyance, announcing his intention to drive with Dorothy to the nearest railway station. There was dismay in the heart of everyone who sat at what had been a cheerful breakfast table. Quentin deliberately went on to say that he would take no lackey, preferring to expose none but himself in the undertaking.

"Can you be ready in an hour, Dorothy?" he asked, after Saxondale had reluctantly consented.

"Do you insist on carrying out this Quixotic plan, Phil?" she asked, after a long pause.

"Positively."

"Then, I can be ready in half an hour," she said, leaving the table abruptly.

"Confound it, Phil; she'd rather stay here," said Dickey, miserably.

"I intend to restore her to her mother, just the same. There's no use discussing it, Dickey. If they don't throw me into jail at Brussels, I may return in a day or two."

There was a faint flush in Dorothy's cheeks as she bade good-bye to the party. Lady Saxondale sagely remarked, as the trap rolled out of sight among the trees below the castle, that the flush was product of resentment, and Dickey offered to wager 20 that she would be an engaged girl before she reached Brussels.

"Do you know the road, Phil?" asked Dorothy, after they had gone quite a distance in silence. She looked back as she spoke, and her eyes uttered a mute farewell to the grim old pile of stone on the crest of the hill.

"Father Bivot gave me minute directions yesterday, and I can't miss the way. It's rather a long drive, Dorothy, and a tiresome one for you, perhaps. But the scenery is pretty and the shade of the forest will make us think we are again in the Bois de la Cambre.

"If I were you, I would not go to Brussels," she said, after another long period of silence, in which she painfully sought for means to dissuade him from entering the city. She was. thinking of the big reward for his capture and of the greedy officials who could not be denied.

"Do you think I am afraid of the consequences?" he asked, bitterly. She looked at the white face and the set jaws and despaired.

"You are not afraid, of course, but why should you be foolhardy? Why not put me in the coach for Brussels and avoid the risk of being seized by the police? I can travel alone. If you are taken, how can you or I explain?" she went on, eagerly.

"You have promised to shield the rest," he said, briefly.

"I know, but I want to shield you. Haven't I told you that I forgive everything? Don't make me unhappy, Phil. It would kill me now if you were to fall into the hands of the police. They are crazy to catch my abductors, and don't you remember what the paper said? It said the people would kill without mercy. Please, Phil, for my sake, don't go to Brussels. It is so unnecessary and so hazardous."

"Pray, tell me what explanation you could give to your mother, to the police, to the newspapers, if you suddenly appeared in Brussels, safe and sound, and yet unable to tell who had been your captors or where you have been held?" he grimly said.

"I would not offer an explanation," she said, decisively, as if that settled everything.

"But you would be compelled to make some statement, my dear girl. You couldn't drop in there as if from the sky and not tell where you have been and with whom. The truth would be demanded, and you could not refuse. What would the world, your mother, the prince, think—"

"Don't mention that man's name to me," she cried.

"Well, what would be the natural conclusion if you refused to give an explanation? Don't you see that the papers would make a sensation of the matter? There is no telling what they would say about you. The world would jump at the scandal bait, and you would be the most notorious of women, to be perfectly plain with you. If you refuse to expose the people who abducted you, there could be but one inference. It would simply mean that you were a party to the plot and fled to evade the wedding at St. Gudule's. Upon whom would suspicion fall? Upon the man who was supposed to have sailed for New York, and upon his friends. Where have you been during the last few weeks? If you did not answer, the world would grin and say, 'In New York, and of her own volition!' Don't you see, Dorothy, there is but one way to end this horrible mistake of mine? Only one way to protect you from humiliation, even degradation?"

"You mean by—" she began, faintly, afraid to complete the dreaded surmise.

"By the surrender of the real criminal," he said, calmly.

"I will not agree to that!" she cried, imperatively. "If you give yourself up to them, Philip Quentin, I will deny every word of your confession," she went on, triumphantly.

"I'm afraid they would doubt you," he responded, but his heart leaped gladly.

"And do you know what else I shall do if you persist? I'll tell the world that you were not alone in this affair, and I'll send the officers to Castle Craneycrow to arrest every—" she was crying hysterically, when he interrupted.

"But you have promised to shield them!"

"Promised! I will forget that I ever made a promise. Philip Quentin, either I go to Brussels alone or every person in Craneycrow goes to prison with you. I'll not spare one of them. Promise? What do I care for that promise? Do as you like, Phil, but I mean every word of it!"

"You wouldn't dare, Dorothy, you wouldn't dare!" he cried, imploringly. "They are not to blame. I am the guilty one. They are not—"

"One way or the other, Phil!" she cried, firmly. "It is safety for all or disgrace for all. Now, will you go to Brussels?"

"But, my heavens, how can you explain to the world?" he cried, in deepest distress.

"I have thought of all that. Providence gave me the solution," she said, her face beaming with the joy of victory.

"Not even Providence can supply an explanation," he groaned.

"You forget Courant, the dead man. He cannot deny the charge if I conclude to accuse him of the crime. He is the solution!"



XXX

LOVE IS BLIND



"But Ugo can disprove it," he said, after a moment's thought.

"Only by confessing his own duplicity," she said, tranquilly.

"You will not marry him, Dorothy?"

She looked him full in the eyes, and no word could have answered plainer than the disdain which swept across her lovely face.

"What do you think of me, Phil?" she asked, in hurt tones, and he answered with his eyes because he could not trust his voice.

The longing to throw her arms about the man whose burning eyes had set her heart afire was almost uncontrollable; the hope that he would throw off restraint and cry out his love, drove her timidly into silent expectancy. His whole soul surged to his lips and eyes, but he fought back the words that would have made them both so happy. He knew she loved him; the taintest whisper from him would cause her lips to breathe the passion her eyes revealed. And yet he was strong enough to bide his time.

How long this exquisite communion of thoughts lasted neither knew nor cared. Through the leafy wood they drove, in utter silence, both understanding, both revealing, both waiting. He dared not look at the glorious, love-lit face, he dared not speak to her, he dared not tempt the heart that might betray his head. It was he who at last broke that joyous calm, and his voice was husky with suppressed emotion.

"You will not forget that some day I am coming to you as Phil Quentin and not in the mask of a bandit."

''I shall expect you, robber, to appear before a certain tribunal and there explain, if you can, what led you to commit the crime that has shocked the world," she said, brightly.

"I implore the leniency of the high court," he said, tenderly.

"The court can only put you on probation and exact the promise that you will never steal another girl."

"And the length of probation?"

"For all your natural life," demurely.

"Then I must appeal to a higher court," he said, soberly.

"What?" she cried. "Do you object to the judgment?"

"Not at all," he said, earnestly. "I will merely appeal to the higher court for permission to live forever." Both laughed with the buoyancy that comes from suppressed delight. "It occurs to me, Dorothy," said he, a few minutes later, "that we are a long time in reaching the town Father Bivot told me about. We seem to be in the wilds, and he said there were a number of houses within five miles of Craneycrow. Have we passed a single habitation?"

"I have not seen one, but I'm sorry the time seems long," she said.

"I wonder if we have lost the way," he went on, a troubled expression in his eyes. "This certainly isn't a highway, and he said we would come to one within three miles of the castle. See; it is eleven o'clock, and we have been driving for more than two hours at a pretty fair gait. By the eternal, Dorothy, we may be lost!"

"How delightful!" she cried, her eyes sparkling.

"I don't believe you care," he exclaimed, in surprise.

"I should have said how frightful," she corrected, contritely.

"This isn't getting you on a train, by any manner of means," he said. "Could I have misunderstood the directions he gave?" He was really disturbed.

"And the poor horse seems so tired, too," she said, serenely.

"By Jove! Didn't we cross a stream an hour or so ago?" he cried.

"A horrid, splashy little stream? We crossed it long ago."

"Well, we shouldn't have crossed it," he said, ruefully. "I should have turned up the hill over the creek road. We're miles out of the way, Dorothy."

"What shall we do?" she asked, with a brave show of dismay.

"I don't know. We're in a deuce of a pickle, don't you see?" he said.

"I can't say that I do see," she said. "Can't we drive back to the creek?"

"We could if I could turn the confounded trap about. But how, in the name of heaven, can I turn on a road that isn't wide enough for two bicycles to pass in safety? Steep, unclimable hill on our left, deep ravine on our right."

"And a narrow bit of a road ahead of us," she said. "It looks very much as if the crooked and narrow path is the best this time."

That narrow road seemed to have no end and it never widened. The driving at last became dangerous, and they realized that the tired horse was drawing them up a long, gradual slope. The way became steeper, and the road rough with rocks and ruts. Her composure was rapidly deserting her, and he was the picture of impatience.

"If we should meet anyone else driving, what would happen?" she asked, fearfully.

"We won't meet anyone," he answered. "Nobody but a mountain goat would wittingly venture up this road. This poor old nag is almost dead. This is a pretty mess! How do you like the way I'm taking you to the train?"

"Is this another abduction?" she asked, sweetly, and both laughed merrily, in spite of their predicament. His haggard face, still showing the effects of illness, grew more and more troubled, and at last he said they would have to get down from the trap, not only to avoid the danger of tipping over the cliff, but to relieve the horse. In this sorry fashion they plodded along, now far above the forest, and in the cool air of the hilltops.

"There certainly must be a top to this accursed hill," he panted. He was leading the horse by the bit, and she was bravely trudging at his side.

"There is a bend in the road up yonder, Phil," she said.

When they turned the bend in the tortuous mountain road, both drew up sharply, with a gasp of astonishment. For a long time neither spoke, their bewildered minds struggling to comprehend the vast puzzle that confronted them. Even the fagged horse pricked up his ears and looked ahead with interest. Not three hundred yards beyond the bend stood the ruins of an enormous castle,

"It is Craneycrow!" gasped the man, leaning dizzily against the shaft of the trap. She could only look at him in mute consternation. It was Craneycrow, beyond all doubt, but what supernatural power had transferred it bodily from the squarrose hill on which it had stood for centuries, to the spot it now occupied, grim and almost grinning? "Is this a dream, Dorothy? Are we really back again?"

"I can't believe it," she murmured. "We must be deceived by a strange resem—"

"There is Bob himself! Good heavens, this paralyzes me! Hey, Bob! Bob!"

A few minutes later a limping horse dragged his bones into the courtyard and two shame faced travelers stood before a taunting quartet, enduring their laughter, wincing under their jests, blushing like children when the shots went home. For hours they had driven in a circle, rounding the great row of hills, at last coming to the very gate from which they had started forth so confidently. They were tired and hungry and nervous.

"Did you telegraph your mother you were coming?" asked Dickey Savage.

"We did not even see a telegraph wire," answered Dorothy, dismally.

"What did you see?" he asked, maliciously,

"You should not ask confusing questions, Richard," reprimanded Lady Jane, with mock severity.

"Well, we'll try it over again to-morrow," decided Quentin, doggedly.

"Do you expect me to let you kill every horse I own?" demanded Lord Bob. "They can't stand these round-the-world pleasure trips every day, don't you know. Glad to oblige you, my boy, but I must be humane."

That evening Father Bivot came to the castle, just as they were leaving the dinner table. He brought startling news. Not an hour before, while on his way from the nearest village, he had come upon a big party of men, quartered on the premises of a gardener down the valley. It required but little effort on his part to discover that they were officers from the capital, and that they were looking for the place where Courant's body was found. The good Father also learned that detectives from Brussels were in the party, and that one of the men was a prince. The eager listeners in Castle Craneycrow soon drew from the priest enough to convince them that Ugo was at the head of the expedition, and that it was a matter of but a few hours until he and his men would be knocking at the gates.

"The prince did not address me," said Father Bivot, "but listened intently, as I now recall, to everything I said in response to the Luxemburg officer's questions. That person asked me if Lord Robert Saxondale owned a place in the valley, and I said that his lordship dwelt in Castle Craneycrow. The men were very curious, and a tall Italian whispered questions to the officer, who put them to me roughly. There was no harm in telling them that his lordship was here with a party of friends—"

"Good Lord!" gasped Dickey, despairingly.

"It is all over," said Quentin, his face rigid.

"What will they do?" demanded Dorothy, panic-stricken.

"I do not understand your agitation, good friends," said the priest, in mild surprise. "Have I done wrong in telling them you are here? Who are they? Are they enemies?"

"They are searching for me, Father Bivot," said Dorothy, resignedly.

"For you, my child?" in wonder.

"They want to take me back to Brussels, You would not understand, Father, if I told you the story, but I do not want them to find me here."

A frightened servant threw open the door unceremoniously at this juncture and controlling his excitement with moderate success, announced that a crowd of men were at the gates, demanding admission.

"My God, Bob, this will ruin you and Lady Saxondale!" groaned Quentin. "What can we do? Escape by the underground passage?"

Lord Saxondale was the coolest one in the party. He squared his shoulders, sniffed the air belligerently, and said he would take the matter in his own hands.

"Frances, will you take Miss Garrison upstairs with you? And Jane, I suspect you would better go, too The secret passage is not to be considered. If we attempt to leave the place, after the information Father Bivot has given them, it will be a clean admission of guilt. We will face them down. They can't search the castle without my permission, and they can't trespass here a minute longer than I desire. Do you care to see the prince, Quentin?"

"See him? It is my duty and not yours to meet him. It means nothing to me and it means disgrace to you, Bob, Let me talk to—"

"If you intend to act like an ass, Phil, you shan't talk to him. I am in control here, and I alone can treat with him and the officers."

"Please, sir, they are becoming very angry, and say they will break down the gates in the name of the law," said the servant, reentering hurriedly.

"I will go out and talk to them about the law," said Saxondale, grimly. "Don't be alarmed, Miss Garrison. We'll take care of you. Gad, you look as if you want to faint! Get her upstairs, Frances."

"I must speak with you, Lord Saxondale," cried Dorothy, clutching his arm and drawing him apart from the pale-faced group. Eagerly she whispered in his ear, stamping her foot in reply to his blank objections. In the end she grasped both his shoulders and looked up into his astonished eyes determinedly, holding him firmly until he nodded his head gravely. Then she ran across the room to the two ladies and the bewildered priest, crying to the latter:

"You must come upstairs and out of danger, Father. We have no time to lose. Good luck to you, Lord Saxondale!" and she turned an excited face to the three men who stood near the door.

"He shall not have you, Dorothy," cried Quentin. "He must kill me first."

"Trust to Lord Saxondale's diplomacy, Phil," she said, softly, as she passed him on her way to the stairs.



XXXI

HER WAY



The grim smile that settled on the faces of the three men after the women and the trembling priest had passed from the hall, was not one of amusement. It was the offspring of a desperate, uneasy courage.

"Quentin, the safety of those women upstairs depends on your thoughtfulness. You must leave this affair to me. We can't keep them waiting any longer. Gad, they will tear down the historic gate I had so much difficulty in building last year. Wait for me here. I go to meet the foe."

Turk was standing in the courtyard with a revolver in his hand. Lord Bob commanded him to put away the weapon and to "stow his bellicoseness." Mere chance caused Turk to obey the command in full; half of it he did not understand. The voices outside the gate were much more subdued than his lordship expected, but he did not know that Prince Ugo had warily enjoined silence, fearing the flight of the prey.

"Who is there?" called Lord Bob, from the inside

"Are you Lord Saxondale?" demanded a guttural voice on the outside.

"I am. What is the meaning of this disturbance?"

"We are officers of the government, and we are looking for a person who is within your walls. Open the gate, my lord."

"How am I to know you are officers of the law? You may be a pack of bandits. Come back to-morrow, my good friends."

"I shall be compelled to break down your gate, sir," came from without, gruffly.

"Don't do it. The first man who forces his way will get a bullet in his head. If you can give me some assurance that you are officers and not thieves, I may admit you." Lord Bob was grinning broadly, much to the amazement of the servant who held the lantern. There were whispers on the outside.

"Prince Ravorelli is with us, my lord. Is he sufficient guarantee?" asked the hoarse voice.

"Is Giovanni Pavesi there, also?" asked Saxondale, loudly.

"I do not know him, my lord. The prince's companions are strangers to me. Is such a person here?" Lord Bob could almost see the look on Ugo's face when the question was put to him.

"I never heard the name," came the clear voice of the Italian. "My friends are well known to Lord Saxondale. He remembers Count Sallaconi and the Duke of Laselli. Two men from Brussels are also here—Captains Devereaux and Ruz."

"I recognize the prince's voice," said Saxondale, unlocking the gate. "Come inside, gentlemen," he said, as he stood before the group. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, you know, but it is wise to be on the safe side. So you are looking for some one who is in my castle? May I inquire the name of that person?"

"You know very well, Lord Saxondale," said Ugo, now taking the lead. He stood boldly, defiantly before the Englishman.

"Carmenita Malban is dead, your excellency," said Bob, coolly.

"I do not know what you are talking about, sir," grated the prince. "Dorothy Garrison is here, held against her will, and I, her affianced husband, command you to surrender her."

"Have you the authority to take her, if I refuse to obey?" asked the other, with exasperating coolness.

"These officers have the authority to arrest you and to take her from your hands, violently, if necessary."

"Oh, well, that makes a difference, of course. Miss Garrison is here, Prince Ravorelli, but I doubt your authority to take her away."

"There is a reward for her, dead or alive," said Court Sallaconi, savagely.

"And for the abductors," added the burly man from Luxemburg. "I shall have to place you under arrest, my lord."

"One moment, my good man. Miss Garrison is her own mistress, I believe?" addressing the prince.

"What has that to do with it?"

"I'm sure I don't know, but it maybe important. If you will kindly request your followers to remain in the courtyard, you may enter the castle and converse with Miss Garrison herself, Prince Paves—I should say Ravorelli." There was a wild, hunted look in the Italian's eyes, and there was murder in his heart. "I will ask you and the count and the duke and Officer Luxemburg to come with me."

With rare dignity Lord Saxondale strode across the flags and deliberately threw open the huge castle door. After a moment of indecision and not a little trepidation, Prince Ugo followed, with his two countrymen not far behind. The Luxemburg officer gave hurried instructions to his men and took his place among the favored few.

It was a sharply-drawn hiss, ending in a triumphant "ah," that came from the lips of Ugo when he was face to face with Philip Quentin. His glittering eyes plainly said that his suspicions were confirmed. The discovery of the fact, a week before, that the two Americans had not sailed for New York provided the foundation for a shrewd guess and he had not been wrong.

"It is as I suspected," he said, tersely. "I trust I am not too late to save Miss Garrison from outrage."

"One moment, please," commanded Lord Bob. "You are here through sufferance, and you must, for the time being, imagine yourself a gentleman. If you care to talk over the situation with us while we wait for Lady Saxondale and Miss Garrison, I shall be only too glad to have you do so. Will you be seated, gentlemen?"

"We are not here to be directed by you, Lord Saxondale. We have tracked this scoundrel to earth, and we are—" Ugo was saying hotly when his lordship turned on him sternly.

"Mr. Quentin is my guest. Another remark of that character and I will throw you bodily from the room. This is my house, Prince Ravorelli." Paying no heed to the malevolent glare in the Italian's eyes, Saxondale turned and bade a servant ask Miss Garrison to come down if it pleased her to do so.

"I presume Brussels is very much excited over Miss Garrison's disappearance," said he to the livid-faced prince.

"Brussels is horrified, but she will rejoice tomorrow. Thank God, we have not toiled in vain."

"Sit down. May I inquire for the health of Mrs. Garrison?" The four newcomers, more or less ill at ease, sat down with Lord Bob, the two Americans standing. Quentin leaned against the big post at the foot of the steps, his face the picture of gloomy defiance.

"I am not her physician, sir."

"Hoity-toity! She is quite well, then, I may reasonably infer. Can you tell me whether she is in Brussels?"

"She will be in Luxemburg in the morning, if my message reaches her to-night. But we are not here for the purpose of bandying words with you, sir. This house must be searched, whether you like it or not. Captain, call in your men," cried the prince, his rage getting the better of him.

"You will find that the door is barred, captain," said Saxondale, easily. The expression that came into the faces of the four men was one not soon to be forgotten. For a full minute there was absolute silence.

"Do you mean that we are prisoners?" demanded Ugo, his teeth showing, but not in a smile.

"Not at all. The door has a habit of locking itself."

"I command you to open that door!" cried the prince, looking about him like a trapped rat. He snarled with rage when he saw the smile on Quentin's face. Dickey's sudden chuckle threw dismay into the ranks of the confident besiegers.

"Do not be alarmed, gentlemen," said Saxondale. "The door shall be opened in good time. Ah, I think the ladies are coming."

As he spoke Dorothy and Lady Saxondale appeared at the top of the stairs. Ugo would have dashed up to meet them had not the two Americans blocked the way. Slowly Dorothy came down the oaken steps, followed by Lady Saxondale. Lady Jane and Father Bivot were not far behind them.

"Dorothy!" cried Ugo. "Thank heaven, I have found you!"

She stopped on the bottom step, within arm's length of Philip Quentin. There was a moment of indecision, a vivid flush leaped into her lovely cheek, and then her hand went quickly forth and rested on Quentin's shoulder. He started and looked at her for the first time.

"I am sorry, Ugo, for the wrong I have done you," she said, steadily, but her hand trembled convulsively on Phil's shoulder. Mechanically he reached up and took the slim fingers in his broad, strong hand and rose to the step beside her.

"The wrong?" murmured the prince, mechanically.

"In running away from you as I did," she said, hurriedly, as if doubting her power to proceed. "It was heartless of me, and it subjected you to the crudest pain and humiliation. I cannot ask you to forgive me. You should despise me."

"Despise you?" he gasped, slowly. The truth began to dawn on two men at the same time. Ugo's heart sank like a stone and Quentin's leaped as if stung by an electric shock. His figure straightened, his chin was lifted, and the blood surged from all parts of his body to his turbulent heart.

"I loved him, Prince Ravorelli, better than all the world. It was a shameless way to leave you, but it was the only way," she said, her voice full. Then she lifted her eyes to Quentin's and for the moment all else was forgotten.

"My God, you—you did not leave Brussels of your own free will!" cried the prince, his eyes blazing, Sallaconi and Laselli moved toward the door, and the police officer's face was a study.

"I ran away with the man I love," she answered, bravely.

"It is a lie!" shrieked the Italian. Saxondale seized his hand in time to prevent the drawing of a revolver from his coat pocket. "'Damn you! This is a trick!"

"You have Miss Garrison's word for it, your excellency. She was not abducted, and your search has been for naught," said the big Englishman. "There are no abductors here. The famous abduction was a part of the game and it was abetted by the supposed victim."

"But there is a reward for her return to Brussels," interrupted the Luxemburg official, speaking for the first time. "I must insist that she come with me."

"The reward is for Dorothy Garrison, is it not?" demanded Saxondale.

"Yes, my lord."

"Well, as you cannot get out of the castle and your friends cannot get into it until we open the doors, there is absolutely no possibility of your taking Dorothy Garrison to Brussels."

"Do you mean to oppose the law?" cried Ugo, panting with rage.

"Gentlemen, as the host in Castle Craneycrow, I invite you to witness the marriage ceremony which is to make it impossible for you to take Dorothy Garrison to Brussels. You have come, gentlemen—a trifle noisily and unkindly, I admit—just in time to witness the wedding of my two very good friends who eloped with the sound of wedding bells in their ears. Father Bivot, the bride and groom await you."

"Dorothy, my darling," whispered Quentin. She turned her burning face away.

"It is my way, Phil. I love you," she murmured.

THE END