Miette screamed—Dorothy felt she would faint.

The man had actually banged the heavy door shut after them.

“Oh! I shall die!” screamed Miette, “why did you ever bring me here?”

“I did not bring you here,” replied Dorothy, showing some indignation, in spite of her stronger emotions. “Just be as quiet as you can, and I am sure it will all come right. This place is new and clean at any rate, and we need not die here. There is air coming through that barred window.”

“But we must get out! I tell you I will choke!” and the French girl was certainly stifled, both with excessive nervousness and the close confines of the place.

Dorothy was hoping to hear a step outside—she was sure the officer had gone after Urania, and that they were alone in the building. It seemed hours—but it could not be more than a half hour at most until she did hear a step at the door. The next moment the outside door of the cell was opened leaving the bars between the fair prisoners and the outside room.

“M’m!” sneered the police officer, looking through the bars, “how do you like it in there? Think you’ll try that trick again?”

“I tried no trick,” declared Dorothy, “and if you do not at once let us out of this place it will be the worse for you. My father is Major Dale of North Birchland—”

“What!” interrupted the man, with his hand on the door.

“Yes, he is,” repeated Dorothy, seeing the effect her words had on the old officer, “and I know something about false imprisonment. What did we do that you should put us in a cell?”

“You helped that girl escape and there’s a big reward out for her. What do you suppose Constable Stevens will say when he comes back and finds the prize gone?”

“I don’t care what he says,” Dorothy almost shouted. “But I do care about being shut up here, and if you do not liberate us at once I’ll see what the Borough of North Birchland thinks of you as an officer.” It was plain the man was scared—the very name of Major Dale had startled him.

He had his hand on the big black lock.

“And how am I to know that it was not a put-up job?” he asked foolishly.

“By the usual method—a trial,” ventured Dorothy, feeling no hesitation in saying anything to this ignorant man.

All this took time, and it was getting late in the afternoon.

Miette’s hands as she clutched Dorothy’s were as cold as ice!

“You must hurry,” demanded Dorothy. “This girl is going to faint!”

At this the man unlocked the door—just as Miette fell senseless on the floor.

“There!” gasped Dorothy, “are you satisfied now? Get me some water, quick! Then call that woman—tell her she must come in here or—or I’ll have both of you tried for this!”

Dorothy scarcely knew what she said. Miette had fainted—and she must be revived!

What did it matter what she said to that cruel old man?

He shuffled off to the door and again called “Mary.” Presently a stout and rather pleasant-looking woman appeared at the door. “My good gracious!” she exclaimed, dropping down beside the unconscious girl. “What in the world does this mean? Father what have you been doing?”

“He has made a mistake, that is all,” replied Dorothy, with her usual alertness. “This girl has fainted—we must get her outside.”

The young woman picked up the limp form as if it was that of a baby. She laid Miette gently on the old sofa near the door.

“Telephone for a doctor, dad, quick,” she directed.

“If it’s only a faint,” the officer objected, “why can’t—”

“I said a doctor, and quick,” called the woman again. “Do you want to have a dead girl on your hands?”

This roused the man to a sense of duty. It was hard to call in Doctor Van Moren, under these circumstances, (the doctor happened to be mayor of the borough) but it would be better than having “a dead girl” in the station house.

Miette was stirring and Dorothy felt she would soon rally—but it would be well to have a doctor, he might help get them out of the place. Certainly Dorothy needed some help, and needed it badly. Both Dorothy and the woman worked over Miette—one chafing her hands and the other dropping cold water between the pale lips.

Finally, while the officer was talking over the telephone, Miette opened her eyes.

Instantly she threw her arms around Dorothy.

“Oh, take me away!” she begged, “don’t let that awful man come near me—let us go!” and she tried to raise herself on the arm of the bench.

“Now be quiet,” commanded the woman, in a gentle voice, “you are all right—no one is going to hurt you.”

But Miette’s eyes stared wildly at Dorothy. The latter was smoothing the black hair that fell in confusion over the temples of the sick girl.

“We will go soon, dear,” said Dorothy, “but you must get strong first. Do you feel better?”

“Yes, I am all right. Do let us go!” and the French girl sat upright in spite of all efforts to keep her head down, which is the important position to be maintained when the face is pale.

“Now dearie,” said the woman, “you must try to be quiet. The doctor will be here directly, and if he says you may go home we will help you all we can.”

Dorothy thanked the woman—she even felt inclined to forgive the old father, so timely was the attention that the daughter gave—perhaps the old man knew no better: perhaps he was afraid of losing the position that he had held many years. As if divining Dorothy’s thoughts the woman said:

“I hope you will hold no ill will to father, he is old and not able to do things as he should. If he was rough I hope you will excuse him.”

“He was rough,” answered Dorothy, “and I did feel that he had done us a grave injustice. But since you are so kind—”

“Here comes the doctor. For goodness sake don’t tell him anything against father,” interrupted the woman, just as a gentleman in an automobile outfit entered the place.

“Well, I declare!” he exclaimed, “what’s all this?”

“My friend fainted,” said Dorothy, before anyone else had time to speak, “and we are trying to revive her. We are anxious to start off for North Birchland in time for the five-twenty train, we thought we had better have your assistance.”

“I’ll tell you how it was, Doc,” started the police officer, in an unsteady voice. “These girls—”

“Dad, do be quiet,” interrupted the daughter. “The doctor has no time to listen to stories. He wants to see what the young girl needs.”

The doctor felt of Miette’s pulse, listened to her heart, and asked some questions.

Dorothy saw how delicate the child looked—it was that ethereal beauty that so attracted the Glenwood girls, but they had not attributed the unusual daintiness to ill health.

“You are not her sister?” the doctor asked of Dorothy.

“No, but she is a very dear friend of mine.”

“And you belong at the Cedars—Mrs. White’s niece?”

“Yes,” replied Dorothy, “I live there. I am Major Dale’s daughter.”

“Then I’ll see the child over there later to-night,” he said. “Were you going back by train?”

“Yes,” answered Dorothy, with a glance at the woman who was shaking her head back of the doctor—motioning to Dorothy to say “Yes.”

“Then I think you might ride back in my auto. I have a call that way, and it will be much easier for the sick girl than taking a train ride.”

“Oh, that would be so very kind of you,” said Dorothy, her gratitude showing as clearly in her eyes as in her voice. “I am sure Aunt Winnie will be so thankful—”

“No trouble at all,” replied the doctor. “Plenty of room in my machine. Come, little girl,”—to Miette,—“Let us see what some fresh air will do for you.”

And they were going away at last! Dorothy felt almost like collapsing herself—the day had been strenuous indeed.

The old officer touched Dorothy’s arm as she was passing out.

“See here, girl,” he whispered, “don’t hold this again me. I was wrong—foolish. But if the doctor got hold of it—I’d be turned out, and then—it would soon be the poorhouse for me.”

Tears glistened in the deep set eyes. His hands were trembling.

“I will do the best I can,” Dorothy promised, “but father will have to know the circumstances—”

“Oh, Major Dale!” and the old man fell into his chair. “Girl, I never knew who you was, and that constable from the Birches, he gave me such a story. Well if you’ll only try to make the major see the way it was—”

“I’ll do all I can,” said Dorothy, hurrying to get away, for Miette was in the car at the door and the chauffeur was ready to start. The police officer stood at the door, and his daughter was on the walk, making sure that the girls were in the auto safely.

“Good-bye,” called Dorothy as the machine began to puff. Miette smiled to the woman, then she looked timidly at the old man. Suddenly another tall figure stepped up to the police station—that of a tall man, with slouch hat—

“The constable!” exclaimed Miette to Dorothy.

But the automobile was off, and the two men on the steps of the country jail were gazing after the cloud of smoke and dust left in the automobile’s track—while Dorothy and Miette were safely flying away to the Cedars.