“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.
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!
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.