"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 pa.s.s 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 d.i.c.key 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 d.i.c.key, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt."

"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 d.i.c.key, 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 ma.s.sacre 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.

"d.i.c.key, 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 d.i.c.key 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 d.i.c.key 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."