The morning newspapers carried the story of Quentin's adventure to the Garrison home, and Dorothy's face, almost haggard as the result of a sleepless night, grew whiter still, and her tired eyes filled with dread. She did not have to recall their conversation of the night before, for it had not left her mind, but her thoughts went back to a former conversation in which he had ridiculed the bandits.

The newspaper fell from her nerveless fingers, and she left the table, her breakfast untouched, stealing miserably to her room, to escape her mother's inquisitive eyes.

Her wretched state was not improved by the visit of a veiled young woman later in the day. The visitor was undoubtedly a lady, but the story she poured into the unwilling ears was so astounding that Dorothy dismissed her indignantly before it was finished. The low-voiced, intense stranger, young and evidently beautiful, told her that Quentin's injuries were not inflicted by thieves, but by the hired agents of one who had cause to fear him. Before Miss Garrison could remonstrate, the stranger went into the details of a plot so cowardly that she was horrified--horrified all the more because, in a large measure, it sustained the charges made against her lover by Philip Quentin. When at last she could no longer endure the villifying recital she bade the woman to leave the house, hotly refusing to give countenance to the lies she was telling. The stranger desisted only after her abject pleading had drawn from the other a bitter threat to have her ejected by the servants.

"You will not hear me to the end, but you must give me the privilege of saying that I do not come here to do him or you an injury," said the visitor, tremulously. "It is to save you from him and to save him for myself. Mademoiselle, I love him. He would marry me were it not for you. You think jealousy, then, inspired this visit? I admit that jealousy is the foundation, but it does not follow that I am compelled to lie. Everything I have said and would say is true.

Perhaps he loves you, but he loved me first. A week ago he told me that he loved me still. It was I who warned the American gentleman against him, and my reason is plain. I want him to win. It would mean death to me if it were known that I came to you with this story. Do you bid me go, or will you hear me to the end?"

"You must go. I cannot listen to the infamous things you say about--about--him," said Dorothy, her voice choking toward the end.

A horrible fear seized upon her heart. Was this woman mad or had Quentin told the truth? A new thought came to her and she grasped the woman's hand with convulsive fingers. "You have been sent here by Mr. Quentin! O, how plain it is! Why did I not see through it at once? Go back to your employer and tell him that--" She was crying hysterically when the woman s.n.a.t.c.hed away her hand, and drawing herself to full height interrupted haughtily:

"I have humbled myself that I might do you the greatest service in the world. You drive me from your presence and you call me a liar.

All of that I must endure, but I will not suffer you to accuse this innocent man while I have voice to offer up in his defense. I may be some one's slave, but I am not the servant of any man. I do not know this American; he does not know me. I am my own agent and not his tool. What I have tried to tell you is true and I confess my actions have been inspired by selfish motives. Mademoiselle, the man you are to marry promised to make me his wife long before he knew you."

"To make you his wife? Absurd! Men of his station do not marry, nor promise to marry, the grisettes or the--"

"'Madam! It is not a grisette to whom you are speaking. The blood in my veins is as n.o.ble as that which flows in his, the name I bear--and perhaps disgrace, G.o.d help me!--is as proud as any in all France. But I have not millions, as you have. My face, my person may win and hold the heart, but I have not the gold with which to buy the soul. You will pardon my intrusion and you will forgive me for any pang I have caused. He would not harken to the appeals from my breaking heart, he would not give me all his love. There was left but one course to preserve what rightfully belongs to me, and I have followed it as a last resort Were you to tell him that a woman came to you with this story, he would deny everything, and he would be lost to me, even though you cast him off in the end. It is not in my power to command you to protect the woman who is trying to help you.

You do not believe what I have told to you, therefore I cannot hope for pity at your hands. You will tell him that I have been here, and I shall pay the penalty for being the fool, the mad woman. I am not asking for pity. If I have lied to you I deserve nothing but the hardest punishment. You have one way to punish me for the wounds I inflict, but it is the same to me, no matter how it ends. If you marry him, I am lost; if you cast him off and yet tell him that it was I who first sowed the seed of distrust in your heart, I am lost.

It will be the same--all the same! If he cannot wed you, he will come to me and I will forgive. Madam, he is not good enough for you, but he is all the world to me. He would wed you, but you are not the one he loves. You are all the world to one whose love is pure and honest. If you would save him, become his wife. O, Mademoiselle, it grieves me so to see the tears in those good eyes of yours!

Farewell, and G.o.d bless and keep you."

XVIII. ARRIVALS FROM LONDON

Lady Saxondale and the young person with the stored-up wrath were met at the Gare du Nord by Mr. Savage, all smiles and good spirits.

Quentin was rounding-to nicely, and there was little danger from complications. This fact coupled with the joy of seeing the girl who had been able to make him feel that life was not a shallow dream, sent him up to the two ladies with outstretched hands, a dancing heart and a greeting that brought smiles to the faces of crusty fellow-creatures who had not smiled in weeks.

With a deference due to premeditated gallantry, he shook hands first with Lady Frances. His ebullition almost swept him to the point of greeting the two maids who stood respectfully near their mistresses.

Then he turned his beaming face upon the Arctic individual with the pink parasol and the palm-leaf fan.

"Awfully sorry, Lady Jane, but I really couldn't get to Ostend. You didn't have any trouble getting the right train and all that, did you?" he asked, vaguely feeling for the hand which had not been extended.

"Not in the least, Mr. Savage. We delight in traveling alone. Do you see the baroness anywhere, Frances?" Mr. Savage stared in amazement.

A distinct, blighting frost settled over the whole September world and his smile lost all but its breadth. The joy left his eyes and his heart like a flash, but his lips helplessly, witlessly maintained a wide-open hospitality until long after the inspiration was dead.

"She is not here, I am afraid," responded Lady Saxondale, glancing through the hurrying crowd. "Have you seen the Baroness St. Auge, Mr. Savage? Or do you know her?"

"I can't say that I have--er--I mean don't--no, I should say both,"

murmured he distractedly. "Does she live here?"

"She resides in a house, not in a railway station," observed Lady Jane, with a cutting sarcasm of which she was rather proud. Lady Saxondale turned her face away and buried a convulsive smile in her handkerchief.

"I mean in Brussels," floundered d.i.c.key, his wits in the wind. He was gazing dumbly at the profile of the slim iceberg that had so sharply sent the blast of winter across the summer of his content.

"She certainly understood that we were to come on this train, Frances. You telegraphed her," said Lady Jane, ignoring him completely. She raised herself on her dainty tiptoes, elevated her round little chin and tried to peer over the heads of a very tall and disobliging mult.i.tude. d.i.c.key, at a loss for words, stretched his neck also in search of the woman he did not know.

"How very annoying," said Lady Saxondale, a faint frown on her brow. "She is usually so punctual."

"Perhaps she--er--didn't get your telegram," ventured d.i.c.key. "What sort of a looking--I mean, is she old or young?"

"Neither; she is just my age," smiled Lady Saxondale. d.i.c.key dumbly permitted the rare chance for a compliment to slip by. "Jane, won't you and Mr. Savage undertake a search for her? I will give William directions regarding the luggage." She turned to the man and the maids, and Mr. Savage and Lady Disdain were left to work out their salvation as best they could.

"I can't think of troubling you, Mr. Savage. It won't be necessary for you to dodge around in this crowd to--"

"No trouble, I a.s.sure you, Lady Jane. Be glad to do it, in fact.

Where shall we go first?" demanded he, considerably flurried.

"You go that way and I'll go this. We'll find her more easily," said she, relentlessly, indicating the directions.

"But I don't know her," he cried.

"How unfortunate! Would you know her if I were to describe her to you? Well, she's tall and very fair. She's also beautiful. She's quite stunning. I'm sure you'll know her." She was starting away when he confronted her desperately.

"You'll have to go with me. I'll be arrested for addressing the wrong lady if I go alone, and you'll suffer the mortification of seeing them drag me off to jail."

"The what? Why do you say mortification, Mr. Savage? I am quite sure--"

"O, come now, Jane--aw--Lady Jane--what do you mean by that? What's all the row about? What has happened?" he cried.

"I don't understand you, Mr. Savage."

"Something's wrong, or you'd seem happier to see me, that's all," he said, helplessly. "Lord, all my troubles come at once. Phil is half dead, perhaps all dead, by this time--and here you come along, adding misery instead of--"

"Phil--Mr. Quentin--what did you say, d.i.c.key?" she cried, her haughty reserve fading like a flash.

"Don't you know?" he cried. "Almost killed last night by--by robbers. Slugged him nearly to a finish. Horrible gashes--eight st.i.tches"--he was blurting out excitedly, but she clasped his arm convulsively and fairly dragged him to where Lady Saxondale stood.

"Oh, d.i.c.key! They didn't kill--he won't die, will he? Why didn't you tell us before? Why didn't you telegraph?" she cried, and there was no wrath in the thumping, terrified little heart. Lady Saxondale turned quickly upon hearing the excited words of the girl who but a moment before had been the personification of reserve.

"What are you saying, Jane? Is there anything wrong?" she asked.

"Everything is wrong--Philip is dead!" cried Lady Jane, ready to faint. "d.i.c.key says there are eight gashes, and that he is all dead!

Why don't you tell us about it, d.i.c.key?"

"He's all right--not dead at all. Robber's held him up last night during the storm, and if help hadn't come just when it did they'd have made short work of him. But I can't tell you about it here, you know. If you'll allow me I'll take a look for the baroness."

"I'll go with you," said Lady Jane, enthusiastically. "d.i.c.key," she went on as they hurried away, "I forgive you."

"Forgive me for what?" he asked.

"For not coming to Ostend," demurely.

"You really wanted me to come, did you, Jane?"

"Yes, after I had been goose enough to telegraph to you, you know.

You don't know how small I felt when you did not come," she hurried out, but his merry laugh cut short the humiliating confession.