“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 has 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 rain 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.