“Where is she?  Where have you been?” cried Quentin, shaking him violently in his agitation.

“Gimme time, gimme time!” panted Turk.  “I’ve got to git my breath, ain’t I?  She’s flew th’ coop, an’ I couldn’t head her off.  Say, has a priest been loafin’ aroun’ here lately?”

“A priest!” cried Lord Bob.  “There hasn’t been one here since Father Bivot came three years ago to—­”

“I mean this week, not t’ree years ago.  She’s gone with a priest, an’ I’m nex’ to who he is, too.  He ain’t no more priest ’n I am.  It’s that French detective, Courant, an’ he’s worked us to a fare-you-well.  He’s th’ boy!”

This startling news threw the party into deeper consternation than before.  The little ex-burglar was not a fluent talker at best, but he now excelled himself in brevity.  In three minutes he had concluded his story, and preparations were well under way for the pursuit.

He was, according to his narrative, sitting in the lower end of the courtyard about nine o’clock, calmly smoking his pipe, when his attention was caught by the long, shrill call of a night bird.  No such sound had come to his ears during his stay at the castle, and his curiosity was aroused.  Not dreaming of what was to follow, he slowly walked toward the front of the castle.  A woman stood in the shadow of the wall near the gate.  Hardly had his eyes made out the dim figure when the whistle was repeated.  Before he fully grasped the situation, the big gate swung slowly inward and another figure, at first glance that of a woman, stood inside the wall.  He heard the woman call softly:  “Is that you, Father?” A man’s voice replied, but the words were too low to be distinguished.  The woman drew back as if to return to the house, but the newcomer was at her side, and his hand was on her arm.

There was a moment of indecision, then resistance, two or three sharp words from the man, and then the two seemed to fade through the wall.  The ponderous gate was closing before the dumbfounded watcher could collect his wits.  Like a shot he was across the stones, now alive to the meaning of the strange proceeding.  With desperate hands he grasped the bar of the gate and pulled, uttering a loud shout of alarm at the same time.  Surprised by the sudden interference, the man on the other side gave way and Turk was through the opening and upon him.  A stunning blow on the head met him as he hurled himself forward, and he plunged headlong to the ground.  As he struggled to his feet another blow fell, and then all was darkness.

When he opened his eyes again two figures were careening down the steep path, a hundred yards away.  They were running, and were plainly distinguishable in the moonlight.  Turk knew that the woman was Dorothy Garrison.  He had heard her cry, after the first blow, “Don’t!  Don’t kill him, Father!  It is Turk!” Crazed with anger and determined to recapture her single-handed, Turk neglected to call for help.  With the blood streaming down his face, he dashed off in pursuit.  There was in his heart the desire to kill the man who had struck him down.  Near the foot of the hill he came up with them and he was like a wildcat.