“I detest whiskers,” decided Lady Jane.

“So do I, especially Turk’s.  But they’re vastly convenient, just the same.  In a couple of days Turk won’t know himself when he looks in the mirror.  I believe I’ll try to cultivate a bunch.”

“I’m sure they would improve you very much,” said Lady Jane, aggressively.  “What is your idea as to color?”

“Well, I rather fancy a nice amber.  I can get one color as easily as another.  Have you a preference?”

“I think pink or blue would become you, Dickey.  But don’t let my prejudices influence you.  Of course, it can’t make any difference, because I won’t recognize you, you know.”

“In other words, if I don’t cut my whiskers you’ll cut me?”

“Dead.”

“Lots of nice men have whiskers.”

“And so do the goats.”

“But a brigand always has a full set—­in the opera, at least.”

“You are only a brigand’s apprentice, and, besides, this isn’t an opera.  It is a society tragedy.”

“Won’t you have another egg?” he asked, looking politely at her plate.  Then he inquired if Miss Garrison would like to join him in a climb among the rocks.  She smiled wistfully and said she would be charmed to do so if she were not too feeble with age when the time came to start.

Consumed with a desire to acquaint herself with her surroundings, she begged her companions to take her over the castle from turret to cellar.  Later in the day, with Turk carrying the lantern, she was eagerly taking notes in the vast, spooky caves of Craneycrow.

Vaulted chambers here, narrow passages there, spider-ridden ceilings that awoke to life as the stooping visitors rustled beneath them, slimy walls and ringing floors, all went to make up the vast grave in which she was to bury all hope of escape.  Immense were the iron-bound doors that led from one room to another; huge the bolts and rusty the hinges; gruesome and icy the atmosphere; narrow the steps that led to regions deeper in the bowels of the earth.  Dorothy’s heart sank like lead as she surveyed the impregnable walls and listened to the mighty groans of long-sleeping doors as the shoulder of the sturdy Turk awoke them to torpid activity.  There was surprise and resentment in the creak of grim old hinges, in the moans of rheumatic timbers, in the jangle of lazy chains and locks.  The stones on which they trod seemed to snap back in the echo of their footfalls a harsh, strident laugh of derision.  Every shadow grinned mockingly at her; the very darkness ahead of the lantern’s way seemed to snort angrily at the approach of the intruders.  The whole of that rockbound dungeon roared defiance in answer to her timid prayer, and snarled an ugly challenge to her courage.