After it was all over and relief was promised, her excitement subsided and in its place began to grow a dull contemplation of what her rescue would mean to the people who were holding her captive.  It meant exposure, arrest, imprisonment and perhaps death.  The appeal she had succeeded in getting to the ears of the passing priest would soon be public property, and another day might see the jubilant minions of the law in front of Castle Craneycrow demanding her release and the surrender of the culprits.  There was not the joy in her heart that she had expected; instead there was a sickening fancy that she had done something mean and treacherous.  When she rejoined the unsuspecting party downstairs soon afterward, a mighty weakness assailed her, and it was she, instead of they who had boldly stolen her from her home, that felt the pangs of guilt.  She went into the courtyard where Savage and Lady Jane were playing handball, while the Saxondales looked on, happily unconscious of a traitor in their midst.  For an instant, pale and remorseful, she leaned against the door-post, struggling to suppress the tears of pity and contrition.  Before she had fully recovered her strength Lady Jane was drawing her into the contest with Dickey.  And so she played cravenly with those whose merry hearts she was to crush, listening to the plaudits of the two smiling onlookers.  It was too late to save them, for a priest of God had gone out into the world to herald their guilt and to deal a blow that would shatter everything.

Quentin came down a little later, and she was conscious that he watched the game with eyes in which pleasure and trouble fought for supremacy.  Tired at last of the violent exercise, the trio threw themselves upon the bench in the shade of the wall, and, with glowing faces and thumping breasts, two of them laughed over the antics they had cut.  Dorothy’s lawless lover stood afar off, lonely and with the resignation of the despised.  Presently he drew near and asked if he might join them in the shade.

“What a dreadful cold you have taken, Phil,” cried Lady Saxondale, anxiously.

“Commonest sort of a cold, I assure you.  Damp cellars don’t agree with me,” he said.

“I did not want your coat, but you would give it to me,” said Dorothy, as if called upon to defend herself for some crime.

“It was you or I for the cold, you know,” he said, simply, “and I was your protector.”

“Right and good,” agreed Dickey.  “Couldn’t do anything else.  Lady needed a coat, had to have it, and she got it.  Duty called and found him prepared.  That’s why he always wears a coat in the presence of ladies.”

“I’ve had your friend, the skeleton, buried,” said Lord Bob.  “Poor chap, he seemed all broken up over leaving the place.”

“Yes—­went all to pieces,” added Dickey.

“Dickey Savage, do you think you are funny?” demanded Lady Jane, loftily.  “I would not jest about the dead.”