Her manner was so truthlike that Sir George was almost convinced.

He said, “I believe you.”

Her father’s confidence touched her keenly; but not to the point of repentance, I hardly need say.

Dorothy then grew anxious to return to the Hall that she might prepare me to answer whatever idle questions her father should put to me.  She took Dolcy’s rein, and leading the mare with one hand while she rested the other upon her father’s arm, walked gayly across Bowling Green down to the Hall, very happy because of her lucky escape.

But a lie is always full of latent retribution.

I was sitting in the kitchen, dreamily watching the huge fire when Dorothy and her father entered.

“Ah, Malcolm, are you here?” asked Sir George in a peculiar tone of surprise for which I could see no reason.

“I thought you were walking.”

I was smoking.  I took my pipe from my lips and said, “No, I am helping old Bess and Jennie with supper.”

“Have you not been walking?” asked Sir George.

There was an odd expression on his face when I looked up to him, and I was surprised at his persistent inquiry concerning so trivial a matter.  But Sir George’s expression, agitated as it was, still was calm when compared with that of Dorothy, who stood a step or two behind her father.  Not only was her face expressive, but her hands, her feet, her whole body were convulsed in an effort to express something which, for the life of me, I could not understand.  Her wonderful eyes wore an expression, only too readable, of terror and pleading.  She moved her hands rapidly and stamped her foot.  During this pantomime she was forming words with her lips and nodding her head affirmatively.  Her efforts at expression were lost upon me, and I could only respond with a blank stare of astonishment.  The expression on my face caused Sir George to turn in the direction of my gaze, and he did so just in time to catch Dorothy in the midst of a mighty pantomimic effort at mute communication.

“Why in the devil’s name are you making those grimaces?” demanded Sir George.

“I wasn’t making grimaces—­I—­I think I was about to sneeze,” replied Dorothy.

“Do you think I am blind?” stormed Sir George.  “Perhaps I am losing my mind?  You are trying to tell Malcolm to say that he was with you at Bowling Green Gate.  Losing my mind, am I?  Damme, I’ll show you that if I am losing my mind I have not lost my authority in my own house.”

“Now, father, what is all this storming about?” asked the girl, coaxingly, as she boldly put her hands upon her father’s shoulders and turned her face in all its wondrous beauty and childish innocence of expression up to his.  “Ask Malcolm to tell you whatever you wish to know.”  She was sure that her father had told me what she had been so anxious to communicate, and she felt certain that I would not betray her.  She knew that I, whose