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.”

Dorothy suddenly felt her courage returning; her brain began to busy itself with hopes, prospects, plans. After all they could not, would not kill her; she was too valuable to them. There was the chance of escape and new strength in the belief that she could in some way outwit them; there was a vast difference between the woman who suffered herself to be put to bed by the deft, kindly maid, and the one who dragged herself hopelessly into the room such a short time before. With the growth of hope and determination there came the courage to inspect her surroundings.

The rooms were charming. There was a generous, kindly warmth about them that suggested luxury, refinement and the hand of a connoiseur. The rugs were of rare quality, the furnishings elegant, the appointments modern and complete. She could not suppress a long breath of surprise and relief: it was no easy matter to convince herself that she was not in some fastidious English home. Despite the fearful journey, ending in the perilous ascent over rocks and gullies, she felt herself glowing with the belief that she was still in Brussels, or, at the worst, in Liege. Her amazement on finding her own trunk and the garments she had left in her chamber the night before was so great that her troubled, bewildered mind raced back to the days when she marvelled over Aladdin's wonderful lamp and the genii. How could they have secured her dresses? But how could anything be impossible to these masters in crime? Once when her eyes fell upon the dark windows a wistful, eager expression came into them. The maid observed the look, and smiled.

“It is fully fifty feet to the ground,” she said, simply. Miss Garrison sighed and then smiled resignedly.

Worn out in body and mind, she sank into sleep even while the mighty, daring resolve to rush over and throw herself from the window was framing itself in her brain. The resolve was made suddenly, considered briefly and would have been acted on precipitously had not the drowsy, lazy influence of slumber bade her to wait a minute, then another minute, another and another, and then—to forget.

Sunlight streamed into the room when she opened her eyes, and for a few minutes she was in a state of uncanny perplexity. Where was she? In whose bed—then she remembered. With the swiftness of a cat she left the bed and flew to the window to look out upon—space at first, then the trees and rocks below. The ground seemed a mile below the spot on which she stood. Gasping with dread she shrank back and covered her eyes with her tense fingers.

“Are you ready for me, Miss?” asked a soft voice from somewhere, and Dorothy whirled to face the maid. Her throat choked, her eyes filled with tears of the reawakening, her heart throbbed so faintly that her hand went forth to find support. The little maid put her strong, gentle arm about the trembling girl and drew her again to the bed “They are expecting you down to breakfast, but I was instructed not to hurry you, Miss.”

“To breakfast?” gasped Dorothy, staring at the girl as if her eyes would pop out. “Wha—what! The impudence!”

“But you must eat, you know.”

“With—with these despicable wretches? Never! I will starve first! Go away from me! I do not need you. I want to be alone, absolutely alone. Do you hear?” She violently shoved the girl away from her, but the friendly smile did not leave the latter's face.

“When you need me, Miss, I am in the next room,” she said, calmly, and was gone. Anger, pure and simple, brought sobs from the very heart of the girl who lay face downward on the crumpled bed.

A new impulse inspired her to call sharply to the maid, and a moment later she was hastily, nervously, defiantly preparing herself to face the enemy and—breakfast. Tingling with some trepidation and some impatience, she led the maid through a strenuous half-hour. What with questions, commands, implorings, reprimands, complaints and fault findings, the poor girl had a sad time of it. When at last Miss Garrison stood ready to descend upon the foe she was the picture of defiance. With a steady stride she followed the maid to the door. Just as it was opened a strong, rollicking baritone voice came ringing through the halls attuned in song:

“In the days of old when knights were bold, And barons held their sway,” etc.

Dorothy stopped stockstill in the doorway, completely overwhelmed. She turned helplessly to the maid, tried to gasp the question that filled her mind, and then leaned weakly against the wall. The singer's voice grew suddenly fainter with the slam of a door, and while its music could still be heard distinctly, she knew that he of the merry tones had left the lower hallway. Feebly she began to wonder what manner of men these thieves could be, these miscreants who lived in a castle, who had lady's maids about them, who sang in cheery tones and who knew neither fear nor caution.

“One of the new guests who came last night,” explained the maid, unconcernedly.

“One who came—who came with me? O, how can such a wretch sing so gayly? Have they been drinking all night?” cried Dorothy, shrinking back into the room.

“Lor', no, Miss, there can't be any such goings on as that here. I think they are waiting for you in the breakfast room,” said the girl, starting down the broad steps.

“I'd sooner die than venture among those ruffians!”

“But the ladies are expecting you.”

“Ladies! Here?” gasped Dorothy.

“Yes, Miss; why not?”

Dorothy's head whirled again. In a dazed sort of way she glanced down at her morning gown, her mind slowly going back to the glittering costume she had worn the night before. Was it all a dream? Scarcely knowing what she did, she followed the girl down the steps, utterly without purpose, drawn as by some strange subtle force to the terminal point in the mystery.

Through the dimly-lighted hall she passed with heart throbbing wildly, expecting she knew not what. Her emotions as she approached the door she could have never told, so tumultuously were they surging one upon the other. The maid grasped the huge knob and swung wide the door, from whose threshold she was to look upon a picture that would linger in her mind to the end of time.

A great sunlit room; a long table and high-backed Flemish chairs; a bewildering group of men and women; a chorus of friendly voices; and then familiar faces began to stand out plainly before her eyes.

Lady Saxondale was advancing toward the door with outstretched hands and smiling face. Over her shoulder the dumbfounded girl saw Lady Jane Oldham, Saxondale, happy faced Dickey Savage and—Philip Quentin!