“Have you spoken to Dorothy on the subject?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, “but I have sent word to her by the Faxton girl that I am going to see her at once.  Come with me.”

We went into Lady Crawford’s room.  She was ill and in bed.  I did not wonder that she was ill after the experiences of the previous night.  Sir George asked her if she had heard or seen Dorothy pass through her room during the night.  She said:—­

“Dorothy did not pass through this room last night.  I did not once close my eyes in sleep, and I should have seen her had she been here at all.”

Sir George entered Dorothy’s bedroom, and Lady Crawford beckoned me to go to her side.

“I waited till sunrise,” she said, “that I might draw up the keys.”

“Hush!” said I, “the cord?”

“I burned it,” she replied.

Then I followed Sir George into Dorothy’s room.  Madge was dressed for the day, and Dorothy, who had been helping her, was making her own toilet.  Her hair hung loose and fell like a cataract of sunshine over her bare shoulders.  But no words that I can write would give you a conception of her wondrous beauty, and I shall not waste them in the attempt.  When we entered the room she was standing at the mirror.  She turned, comb in hand, toward Sir George and said:—­

“I suppose, father, you will accuse me of liberating Thomas.”

“You must know that I will accuse you,” replied Sir George.

“Then, father, for once you will accuse me falsely.  I am overjoyed that he has escaped, and I certainly should have tried to liberate him had I thought it possible to do so.  But I did not do it, though to tell you the truth I am sorry I did not.”

“I do not believe you,” her father replied.

“I knew you would not believe me,” answered Dorothy.  “Had I liberated him I should probably have lied to you about it; therefore, I wonder not that you should disbelieve me.  But I tell you again upon my salvation that I know nothing of the stealing of the keys nor of Tom-Tom’s escape.  Believe me or not, I shall deny it no more.”

Madge gropingly went to Sir George’s side, and he tenderly put his arms about her, saying:—­

“I would that you were my daughter.”  Madge took his hand caressingly.

“Uncle, I want to tell you that Dorothy speaks the truth,” she said.  “I have been with her every moment since the terrible scene of yesterday evening.  Neither Dorothy nor I closed our eyes in sleep all night long.  She lay through the dark hours moaning, and I tried to comfort her.  Our door was locked, and it was opened only by your messenger who brought the good news of Tom-Tom’s escape.  I say good news, uncle, because his escape has saved you from the stain of murder.  You are too brave a man to do murder, uncle.”

“How dare you,” said Sir George, taking his arm from Madge’s waist, “how dare you defend—­”

“Now, uncle, I beg you pause and take a moment’s thought,” said Madge, interrupting him.  “You have never spoken unkindly to me.”