There were two ugly gashes in Quentin’s head, one of which, it was feared at first, would disclose a fracture of the skull.  Dr. Gassbeck, the surgeon who had attended a wounded prince in the same hotel less that twenty-four hours before, gave out as his opinion that Quentin’s injuries were not dangerous unless unexpected complications appeared.  Several stitches were taken in each cut, and the patient, slowly recovering from the effects of the blows and the anesthetics, was put to bed by his friends.

Savage observed one thing when he entered the hotel with the wounded man.  Prince Ugo and Count Sallaconi were among the first to come forward when the news of the attack spread through the office and corridors.  The prince, in fact, was conversing with some gentlemen near the doors when the party entered.  It was he who sent messengers to the central police office and who told the detectives where and how he had last seen the victim of the diamond thieves.

Dickey sat all night beside his rolling, moaning friend, unnerved, almost despairing, but the morning brought the change that gladdened his heart and gave him a chance to forget his fears and apprehensions long enough to indulge in an impressive, though inadequate, degree of profanity, with continued reference to a certain set of men whom the world called thieves, but whom he designated as dogs.

About ten o’clock a telegram from Ostend came to the hotel for him.  It read:  “Are you not coming to Ostend for us?  Jane.”  An hour later a very pretty young lady in Ostend tore a telegram to pieces, sniffed angrily and vowed she would never speak to a certain young man again.  His reply to her rather peremptory query by wire was hardly calculated to restore the good humor she had lost in not finding him at the dock.  “Cannot come.  Awfully sorry.  Can’t leave Brussels.  Hurry on.  Will explain here.  Richard Savage.”  Her sister-in-law and fellow-traveler from London was mean enough to tease her with sly references to the beauty of Brussels women and the fickleness of all mankind.  And so there was stored away for Mr. Savage’s benefit a very cruel surprise.

The morning newspapers carried the story of Quentin’s adventure to the Garrison home, and Dorothy’s face, almost haggard as the result of a sleepless night, grew whiter still, and her tired eyes filled with dread.  She did not have to recall their conversation of the night before, for it had not left her mind, but her thoughts went back to a former conversation in which he had ridiculed the bandits.  The newspaper fell from her nerveless fingers, and she left the table, her breakfast untouched, stealing miserably to her room, to escape her mother’s inquisitive eyes.