Dorothy staggered into the arms of Lady Saxondale, choking with a joy that knew no bounds, stupefied past all power of understanding. She only saw and knew that she was safe, that some strange miracle had been wrought and that there were no terrible, cruel-hearted robbers in sight. It was some time before she could utter a word to those who stood about eagerly—anxiously—watching the play of emotions in her face.

“O, you will never know how glorious you all look to me. How is it that I am here? Where are those awful men? What has happened to me, Lady Saxondale, tell me? I cannot breathe till everything is explained to me,” she cried, her voice trembling with gladness. In her vast exuberance she found strength and with it the desire to embrace all these good friends. Her ecstatic exhibition of joy lost its violence after she had kissed and half crushed Lady Jane and had grasped both of Lord Bob's big hands convulsively. The young men came in for a much more formal and decorous greeting. For an instant she found herself looking into Quentin's eyes, as he clasped her hand, and there was a strange light in them—a bright, eager, victorious gleam which puzzled her not a little. “O, tell me all about it! Please do! I've been through such a terrible experience. Can it be true that I am really here with you?”

“You certainly are, my dear,” said Lady Saxondale, smiling at her, then glancing involuntarily into the faces of the others, a queer expression in her eyes.

“Where is mamma? I must go to her at once, Lady Saxondale. The wretches were so cruel to her and to poor Uncle Henry—good heavens! Tell me! They did not—did not kill her!” She clutched at the back of a chair and—grasped Quentin's arm as it swept forward to keep her from falling.

“Your mother is safe and well,” cried Lady Saxondale, quickly. “She is in Brussels, however, and not here, Dorothy.”

“And where am I? Are you telling the truth? Is she truly safe and well? Then, why isn't she here?” she cried, uneasily, apprehensively.

“It takes a long story, Miss Garrison,” said Lord Bob, soberly. “I think you would better wait till after breakfast for the full story, so far as it is known to us. You'll feel better and I know you must be as hungry as a bear.”

There was a troubled, uncertain pucker to her brow, a pleading look in her eyes as she suffered herself to be led to a chair near the end of the table. It had not struck her as odd that the others were deplorably devoid of the fervor that should have manifested itself, in words, at least. There was an air of restraint almost oppressive, but she failed to see it, and it was not long until it was so cleverly succeeded by a genial warmth of manner that she never knew the severity of the strain upon the spirits of that small company.

Suddenly she half started from the chair, her gaze fastened on Quentin's face. He read the question in her eyes and answered before she could frame it into words.

“I did not sail for New York, at all,” he said, with an assumption of ease he did not feel. “Dickey and I accepted Lord Saxondale's pressing invitation to stop off with them for awhile. I don't wonder that you are surprised to find us here.”

“I am not surprised at anything now,” she said in perplexed tones. “But we are not in England; we were not on the water. And all those trees and hills and rocks I saw from the window—where are we?”

“In the grimmest, feudliest, ghastliest old place between Brussels and Anthony Hope's domain. This is Castle Craneycrow; a real, live castle with parapets, bastions, traditions and, I insist—though they won't believe me—snakes and mice and winged things that screech and yowl.” So spoke Lady Jane, eagerly. Miss Garrison was forgetting to eat in her wonder, and Mr. Savage was obliged to remind her that “things get cold mighty quick in these baronial ice-houses.”

“I know it's a castle, but where is it located? And how came you here?”

“That's it,” quoth Mr. Savage, serenely. “How came we here? I repeat the question and supply the answer. We came by the grace of God and more or less luck.”

“O, I'll never understand it at all,” complained Dorothy, in despair. “Now, you must answer my questions, one by one, Lord Saxondale. To whom does the castle belong?”

“To the Earl of Saxondale, ma'am.”

“Then, I know where it is. This is the old place in Luxemburg you were telling me about.”

“That isn't a question, but you are right.”

“But how is it that I am here?”

“You can answer that question better than I, Miss Garrison.”

“I only know those wretches—the one who disguised himself as my father and the one who tried to be my mother—jostled me till I was half dead and stopped eventually at the doors—O, O, O!” she broke off, in startled tones, dropping her fork. “They—they did not really bring me here—to your house, did they?”

“They were good enough to turn you over to our keeping last night, and we are overjoyed to have you here.”

“Then,” she exclaimed, tragically, rising to her feet, “where are the men who brought me here?” A peculiar and rather mirthless smile passed from one to the other of her companions and it angered her. “I demand an explanation, Lord Saxondale.”

“I can give none, Miss Garrison, upon my soul. It is very far from clear to me. You were brought to my doors last night, and I pledge myself to protect you with my life. No harm shall come to you here, and at the proper time I am sure everything will be made clear to you, and you will be satisfied. Believe me, you are among your dearest friends—”

“Dearest friends!” she cried, bitterly. “You insult me by running away from my wedding, you league yourselves with the fiends who committed the worst outrage that men ever conceived, and now you hold me here a—a prisoner! Yes, a prisoner! I do not forget the words of the maid who attended me; I do not forget the inexplicable presence of my traveling clothes in this house, and I shall never forget that my abductors came direct to your castle, wherever it may be. Do you mean to say that they brought me here without an understanding with you? Oh! I see it all now! You—you perpetrated this outrage!”

“On the contrary, Miss Garrison, I am the meekest and lowliest of English squires, and I am in no way leagued with a band of robbers. Perhaps, if you will wait a little while, Lady Saxondale may throw some light on the mystery that puzzles you. You surely will trust Lady Saxondale.”

“Lady Saxondale did me the honor to command me to give up Prince Ravorelli. I am not married to him and I am here, in her home, a prisoner,” said Dorothy, scornfully. “I do not understand why I am here and I do not know that you are my friends. Everything is so queer, so extraordinary that I don't know how to feel toward you. When you satisfactorily explain it all to me, I may be able to forget the feeling I have for you now and once more regard you as friends. It is quite clear to me that I am not to have the privilege of quitting the castle without your consent; I acknowledge myself a prisoner and await your pleasure. You will find me in the room to which you sent me last night. I cannot sit at your table, feeling that you are not my friends; I should choke with every mouthful.”

No one sought to bar her way from the dining-room. Perhaps no one there felt equal to the task of explaining, on the moment, the intricacies of a very unusual transaction, for no one had quite expected the bolt to fall so sharply. She paced the floor of her room angrily, bewailing the fate that brought her to this fortress among the rocks. Time after time she paused at the lofty windows to look upon the trees, the little river and the white roadbed far below. There was no escape from this isolated pile of stone; she was confined as were Bluebeard's victims in the days of giants and ogres and there were no fairy queens to break down the walls and set her free. Each thought left the deeper certainty that the people in the room below were banded against her. An hour later, Lady Saxondale found her, her flushed face pressed to the window pane that looked down upon the world as if out of the sky.

“I suppose, Lady Saxondale, you are come to assure me again that I am perfectly safe in your castle,” said the prisoner, turning at the sound of her ladyship's voice.

“I have come to tell you the whole story, from your wedding to the present moment. Nothing is to be hidden from you, my dear Miss Garrison. You may not now consider us your friends, but some day you will look back and be thankful we took such desperate, dangerous means to protect you,” said Lady Saxondale, coming to the window. Dorothy's eyes were upon the outside world and they were dark and rebellious. The older woman complacently stationed herself beside the girl and for a few moments neither spoke.

“I am ready to hear what you have to say,” came at last from Miss Garrison.

“It is not necessary to inform you that you were abducted—”

“Not in the least! The memory of the past two days is vivid enough,” said Miss Garrison, with cutting irony in her voice.

“But it may interest you to know the names of your abductors,” said the other, calmly.

“I could not miss them far in guessing, Lady Saxondale.”

“It was necessary for some one to deliver you from the villain you were to marry, by the most effective process. There is but one person in all this world who cares enough for you to undertake the stupendous risk your abduction incurred. You need not be told his name.”

“You mean,” said Dorothy, scarcely above a whisper, “that Philip Quentin planned and executed this crime?”

Lady Saxondale nodded.

“And I am his prisoner?” breathlessly. “You are under his protection; that is all.”

“Do you call it protection to—” began Dorothy, her eyes blazing, but Lady Saxondale interrupted firmly.

“You are his prisoner, then, and we are your jailers. Have it as you will.”

Lady Saxondale proceeded to relate the history of Philip Quentin's achievement. Instead of sailing for New York, he surrendered to his overpowering love and fell to work perfecting the preposterous plan that had come to him as a vision in the final hour of despair. There was but little time in which to act, and there was stubborn opposition to fight against. The Saxondales were the only persons to whom he could turn, and not until after he had fairly fought them to earth did they consent to aid him in the undertaking. There remained to perform, then, the crowning act in this apparently insane transaction. The stealing of a woman on whom the eyes of all the world seemed riveted was a task that might well confound the strategy of the most skillful general, but it did not worry the determined American.

Wisely he chose the wedding day as the best on which to carry out his project. The hulla-balloo that would follow the nonappearance of the bride would throw the populace and the authorities into a state of confusion that might last for hours. Before they could settle down to a systematic search, the bold operator would be safely in the last place they would suspect, an English lord's playhouse in the valley of the Alzette. Nothing but the most audacious daring could hope to win in such an undertaking. When Mrs. Garrison's coachman and footman came forth in all their august splendor on the night of the wedding, they were pounced upon by three men, overpowered, bound and locked in a small room in the stables. One of the desperadoes calmly approached the servants' quarters, presented a bold face (covered with whiskers), and said he had come for Miss Garrison's trunks. Almost insane with the excitement of the occasion, the servants not only escorted him to the bride's room, but assisted him in carrying two trunks downstairs. He was shrewd enough to ascertain which trunk was most needed, and it was thrown into a buggy and driven away by one of the trio.

When the carriage stopped for the first time to permit the masked man to thrust his revolver into the faces of the occupants, the trunk was jerked from that same buggy and thrown to the boot of the larger vehicle. Of course, having absolute control of the carriage, it was no trick, if luck attended, for the new coachman and footman to drive away with the unsuspecting bride and her companions. It is only the ridiculously improbable projects that are successful, it has been said. Certainly it was proven in this case. It is not necessary to tell the full story, except to say that the masked man who appeared at the carriage door in the little side street was Quentin; that the foot-man was Dickey Savage, the driver Turk. In the exchange of clothing with the deposed servants of Mrs. Garrison, however, Turk fell into a suit of livery big enough for two men of his stature.

The deserted house was beyond the city limits, and had been located the day before by Turk, whose joy in being connected with such a game was boundless. Other disguises, carefully chosen, helped them on to the Grand Duchy, Quentin as the gray-bearded man, Savage as the old woman. The suffering of Dorothy Garrison during that wild night and day was the only thing that wrung blood from the consciences of these ruthless dare-devils. Philip Quentin, it must be said, lived years of agony and remorse while carrying out his part of the plan. How the plot was carried to the stage where it became Lady Saxondale's duty to acquaint Dorothy Garrison with the full particulars, the reader knows. It only remains to say that good fortune favored the conspirators at every turn, and that they covered their tracks with amazing effectiveness. Utterly cut off from the eyes of the world, the captive found herself powerless to communicate with the hysterical people who were seeking her in every spot save the right one.

“Now that you have finished this remarkable story and have pleaded so prettily for him, may I ask just what Mr. Quentin expects of me?” asked Dorothy, cold, calm, and entirely the mistress of herself and the million emotions that Lady Saxondale's disclosures aroused.

“He expects you to give him your heart,” said her ladyship, slowly. Dorothy fell back against the wall, aghast, overcome by this crowning piece of audacity.

“Dorothy, a week ago you loved Phil Quentin; even when you stepped inside the carriage that was to take you to the altar you loved him better—”

“I did not! I hate him!” cried Dorothy.

“Perhaps, now, but let me ask you this question: When you were being dragged away by those three men, when they were putting miles and miles between you and your friends, of whom were you thinking? Ah, your face, your eyes betray you!—You were thinking of Philip Quentin, not of Ugo Ravorelli. You were praying that one strong arm might come to your relief, you knew but one man in all the world who had the courage, the love, the power to rescue you. Last night, when you entered this dismal place, you wondered if Philip Quentin—yes, Philip Quentin—could break down the doors and save you. And then you remembered that he could not help you, for you had thrown aside his love, had driven him away. Listen! Don't deny it, for I am a woman and I know! This morning you looked from yon window and your heart sank with despair. Then, forgetful again, your eye swept the road in the hope of seeing—of seeing, whom? But one man was in your mind, Dorothy Garrison, and he was on the ocean. When you came into the breakfast room, whose face was it that sent the thrill to your heart? Whose presence was it that told you your prayers had been answered? Whom did you look upon as your savior, your rescuer? That big American, who loves you better than life. Philip Quentin had saved you from the brigands, and you loved him for it. Now, Dorothy Garrison, you hate him because he saved you from a worse fate—marriage with the most dissolute hypocrite in Europe, the most cunning of all adventurers. You are not trying to check the tears that blind your eyes; but you will not confess to me that your tears come from a heart full of belief in the man who loves you deeply enough to risk his honor and his life to save you from endless misery. Lie where you are, on this couch, Dorothy, and just think of it all—think of Phil.”

When Dorothy raised her wet eyes from the cushion in which they had been buried, Lady Saxondale was gone.

Philip Quentin stood in the doorway.