After returning to her room later on, Dorothy eagerly devoured the contents of the newspapers, which were a day or two old. They devoted columns to the great abduction mystery; pictured the grief of the mother and marvelled at her courage and fortitude; traced the brigands over divers streets to the deserted house; gave interviews with the bride's fiance, her uncle and the servants who were found in the stables; speculated on the designs of the robbers, their whereabouts and the nature of their next move; drew vivid and terrifying visions of the lovely bride lying in some wretched cave, hovel or cellar, tortured and suffering the agony of the damned. Opinions of police officers disclosed some astonishing solutions to the mystery, but, withal, there was a tone of utter bewilderment in the situation as they pictured it. She read the long and valiant declaration of Prince Ugo Ravorelli, the frantic, broken-hearted bridegroom, in which he swore to rescue the fair one from the dastards, “whoever and wherever they might be.” Somehow, to her, his words, in cold print, looked false, artificial, theatrical—anything but brave and convincing.

She stared in amazement at the proclamation offering 100,000 francs for her restoration. The general opinion, however, was that the abductors might reasonably be expected to submit a proposition to give up their prize for not less than twice the amount. To a man the police maintained that Miss Garrison was confined somewhere in the city of Brussels. There were, with the speculations and conjectures, no end of biographical sketches and portraits. She found herself reading with a sort of amused interest the story of how one of the maids had buckled her satin slippers, another had dressed her hair, another had done something and another something else. It was all very entertaining, in spite of the conditions that made the stories possible. But what amused her most of all were the wild guesses as to her present whereabouts. There was a direful unanimity of opinion that she was groveling in her priceless wedding-gown on the floor of some dark, filthy cellar. The papers vividly painted her as haggard, faint, despairing of succor, beating her breast and tearing her beautiful hair in the confines of a foul-smelling hole in the ground, crying for help in tones that would melt a heart of stone, and guarded by devils in the guise of men.

Then she came to the paragraph which urged the utmost punishment that law could inflict upon the desperadoes. The outraged populace could be appeased with nothing save death in its most ignominious, inglorious form. The trials would be short, the punishment swift and sure. The people demanded the lives of the villains.

For a long time she sat with expressionless eyes, staring at the wall opposite, thinking of the five persons who kept her a prisoner, thinking of the lives the people longed to take, thinking of death. Death to pretty Lady Jane, to Lady Saxondale, to Lord Bob, to Dickey Savage—the hunted—and to Philip Quentin, the arch conspirator! To kill them, to butcher them, to tear them to pieces—that was what it meant, if they were taken before the maddened people. When Baker brought in the tea, Dorothy was shivering as one with a chill, and there was a new terror in her soul. What if they were taken? Could she endure the thought that death was sure to come to them, or to two of 'them, at least? Two of the men? Two Americans?

During the next three days she refused to leave her room, coldly declining the cordial invitations to make one of a very merry house party, as Lady Jane called it. Her meals were sent to her room, and Baker was her constant attendant. Into her cheek came the dull white of loneliness and despair, into her eye the fever of unrest. The visits met with disdain, and gradually they became less frequent. On the third day of this self-inflicted separation she sat alone from early morn until dusk without the first sign of a visit from either Lady Saxondale or Lady Jane.

All day long she had been expecting them, and now she was beginning to hunger for them. A ridiculous, inconsistent irritation had been building itself in her heart since midday, and at dusk it reached its limit in unmistakable rage. That they might be willing to ignore her entirely had not entered her mind before. Her heart was very bitter toward the disagreeable creatures who left her alone all day in a stuffy room, and in a most horrid temper to boot.

From below, at different times during the afternoon, came the happy laughter of men and women, rollicking songs, the banging of a piano in tantalizing “rag-time” by strong New York fingers, the soft boom of a Chinese dinner gong and—oh! it was maddening to sit away up there and picture the heartless joy that reigned below. When Baker left the room, Dorothy, like a guilty child, sneaked—actually sneaked—to the hall door, opened it softly, and listened with wrathful longing to the signs of life and good cheer that came to her ears. Desolate, dispirited, hungry for the companionship of even thieves and robbers, she dragged herself to the broad window and looked darkly down upon the green and gray world.

Her pride was having a mighty battle. For three long days had she maintained a stubborn resistance to all the allurements they could offer; she had been strong and steadfast to her purpose until this hour came to make her loneliness almost unendurable—the hour when she saw they were mean enough to pay her in the coin of her own making. Now she was crying for them to come and lift the pall of solitude, to brighten the world for her, to drive the deadly sickness out of her heart. They had ignored her for a whole day, because, she was reasonable enough to see, they felt she did not want them to be near her. Would they never come to her again? Pride was commanding her to scorn them forever, but a lonely heart was begging for fellowship.

“Baker!” she called, suddenly, turning from the window, her face aglow, her breath coming fast, her heart bounding with a new resolution—or the breaking of an old one. Baker did not respond at once, and the now thoroughly aroused young lady hurried impatiently to the bedchamber in quest of her. The maid was seated in a window, with ears as deaf as a stone, reading the harrowing news from the latest newspaper that had come to Castle Craneycrow. Dorothy had read every line of the newest developments, and had laughed scornfully over the absurd clews the police were following. She had been seen simultaneously in Liverpool and in London and in Paris and in Brussels. And by reputable witnesses, too.

“Baker!”

“Yes, Miss,” and the paper rattled to the floor, for there was a new tone in the voice that called to her.

“You may go to Lady Saxondale and say that I accept yesterday's invitation to dine with her and Lord Saxondale.”

“Yesterday's invitation—you mean to-day's, Miss—” in bewildered tones.

“I mean yesterday's, Baker. You forget that I have no invitation for to-day. Tell her that Miss Garrison will be delighted to dine with her.”

Baker flew out of the room and downstairs with the message, the purport of which did not sift through her puzzled head until Lady Saxondale smiled and instructed her to inform Miss Garrison that she would be charmed to have her dine with her both yesterday and to-day.

In the meantime Dorothy was reproaching herself for her weakness in surrendering. She would meet Quentin, perhaps be placed beside him. While she could not or would not speak to him, the situation was sure to be uncomfortable. And they would think she was giving in to them, and he would think she was giving in to him—and—but anything was better than exile.

While standing at the window awaiting Baker's return, her gaze fell upon a solitary figure, trudging along the white, snake-like road, far down among the foothills—the figure of a priest in his long black robe. He was the first man she had seen on the road, and she watched him with curious, speculative eyes.

“A holy priest,” she was thinking; “the friend of all in distress. Why not me? Would he, could he help me? Oh, good father, if you could but hear me, if I could but reach your ears! How far away he is, what a little speck he seems away down there! Why, I believe he is—yes, he is looking up at the castle. Can he see me? But, pshaw! How could he know that I am held here against my will? Even if he sees my handkerchief, how can he know that I want him to help me?” She was waving her handkerchief to the lonely figure in the road. To her amazement he paused, apparently attracted by the signal. For a brief instant he gazed upward, then dropped his cowled head and moved slowly away. She watched him until the trees of the valley hid his form from view, and she was alone with the small hope that he might again some day pass over the lonely road and understand.

When the dinner gong rang, she was ready to face the party, but there was a lively thumping in her breast as she made her way down the steps. At the bottom she was met by Lady Saxondale, and a moment later Lord Bob came up, smiling and good-natured. There was a sudden rush of warmth to her heart, the bubbling over of some queer emotion, and she was wringing their hands with a gladness she could not conceal.

“I am so lonely up there, Lady Saxondale,” she said, simply, unreservedly.

“Try to look upon us as friends, Dorothy; trust us, and you will find more happiness here than you suspect. Castle Craneycrow was born and went to ruin in the midst of feud and strife; it has outlived its feudal days, so let there be no war between us,” said her ladyship, earnestly.

“If we must live together within its battered walls, let us hoist a flag of truce, pick up the gauntlet and tie up the dogs of war,” added bluff Lord Bob.

Dorothy smiled, and said: “There is one here who is not and can never be included in our truce. I ask you to protect me from him. That is the one condition I impose.”

“You have no enemies here, my dear.”

“But I have a much too zealous friend.”

“Last call for dinner in the dining-car,” shouted Dickey Savage, corning down the stairs hurriedly. “I was afraid I'd be late. Glad to see you. I haven't had a chance to ask how you enjoyed that view from the tower the other day.” She had given him her hand and he was shaking it rapturously.

“It was glorious, and I haven't had the opportunity to ask if you have explored the hills and forest.”

“I'm afraid of snakes and other creeping things,” he said, slyly.

They had gone to the dining-room when Quentin entered. He was paler than usual, but he was as calm, as easy and as self-possessed as if he had never known a conscience in all his life. She was not looking at him when he bowed to her, but she heard his clear voice say:

“I am glad to see you, Dorothy.”

He sat across the table, beside Lady Jane, who was opposite Dorothy. If he noticed that she failed to return his greeting, he was not troubled. To his credit be it said, however, he did not again address a remark to her during the meal. Within the sound of his voice, under the spell of his presence, in such close proximity to his strong, full-blooded body, she could not but give a part of her thought to this man who, of all others, the mob would slay if they had the chance.

She could not conceal from herself the relief she felt in mingling with friends. A willful admiration grew full in the face of resentful opposition, and there was a reckless downfall of dignity. They treated her without restraint, talked as freely of their affairs as if she were not there, boldly discussed the situation in Brussels, and laughed over the frantic efforts of the authorities. Helplessly she was drawn into the conversation, and, at last, to her dismay, joined with them in condolences to the police.

“But some day they will find the right trail and pounce upon you like so many wild beasts,” she said, soberly. “What then? You may be laughing too soon.”

“It would be hard luck to have to break up such an awfully nice house party,” said Dickey, solemnly.

“And the papers say they will kill us without compunction,” added Lady Jane.

“It wouldn't be the first slaughter this old house has known,” said Lord Bob. “In the old days they used to kill people here as a form of amusement.”

“It might amuse some people even in our case, but not for me, thanks,” said Quentin. “They'd execute me first, however, and I wouldn't have to endure the grief of seeing the rest of you tossed out of the windows.”

“Do you really believe they would kill poor little me?” demanded Lady Jane, slowly, her eyes fastened on her brother's face.

“Good Heaven, no!” cried Dorothy, at the possibility of such a calamity. “Why should they kill a helpless girl like you?”

“But I am one of the wretches they are hunting for. I'm a desperado,” argued Lady Jane.

“I'd insist on their killing Lady Jane just the same as the rest of us. It would be all wrong to discriminate, even if she is young and—and—well, far from ugly,” declared Dickey, decidedly.

“You might try to save my life, Mr. Savage; it would be the heroic thing to do,” she said.

“Well I'll agree to let 'em kill me twice if it will do any good. They'd surely be obliging if I said it was to please a lady. Couldn't you suggest something of the kind to them, Miss Garrison? You know the whole massacre is in your honor, and I imagine you might have a good bit to say about the minor details. Of course, Lady Jane and I are minor details—purely incidentals.”

“We are in the chorus, only,” added Lady Jane, humbly.

“If you persist in this talk about being killed, I'll go upstairs and never come down again,” cried Dorothy, wretchedly, and the company laughed without restraint.

“Dickey, if you say another word that sounds like 'kill' I'll murder you myself,” threatened Lord Bob.

Lady Jane began whetting a silver table knife on the edge of her plate.

That evening Dorothy did not listen to Dickey Savage's rag-time music from an upstairs room. She stood, with Lady Jane, beside the piano bench and fervently applauded, joined in the chorus and consoled herself with the thought that it was better to be a merry prisoner than a doleful one. She played while Dickey and Jane danced, and she laughed at the former's valiant efforts to teach the English girl how to “cake walk.”

Philip Quentin, with his elbows on the piano, moodily watched her hands, occasionally relaxing into a smile when the laughter became general. Not once did he address her, and not once did she look up at him. At last he wandered away, and when next she saw him he was sitting in a far corner of the big room, his eyes half closed, his head resting comfortably against the high back of the chair.

Lord and Lady Saxondale hovered about the friendly piano, and there was but one who looked the outcast. Conditions had changed. She was within a circle of pleasure, he outside. She gloated in the fact that he had been driven into temporary exile, and that he could not find a place in the circle as long as she was there. Occasionally one or the other of his accomplices glanced anxiously toward the quiet outsider, but no one asked him to come into the fold. In the end, his indifference began to irritate her. When Lady Saxondale rang for the candles near the midnight hour, she took her candlestick from the maid, with no little relief, and unceremoniously made her way toward the hall. She nervously uttered a general good-night to the party and flushed angrily when Quentin's voice responded with the others:

“Good-night, Dorothy.”