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