No one sought to bar her way from the dining-room.  Perhaps no one there felt equal to the task of explaining, on the moment, the intricacies of a very unusual transaction, for no one had quite expected the bolt to fall so sharply.  She paced the floor of her room angrily, bewailing the fate that brought her to this fortress among the rocks.  Time after time she paused at the lofty windows to look upon the trees, the little river and the white roadbed far below.  There was no escape from this isolated pile of stone; she was confined as were Bluebeard’s victims in the days of giants and ogres and there were no fairy queens to break down the walls and set her free.  Each thought left the deeper certainty that the people in the room below were banded against her.  An hour later, Lady Saxondale found her, her flushed face pressed to the window pane that looked down upon the world as if out of the sky.

“I suppose, Lady Saxondale, you are come to assure me again that I am perfectly safe in your castle,” said the prisoner, turning at the sound of her ladyship’s voice.

“I have come to tell you the whole story, from your wedding to the present moment.  Nothing is to be hidden from you, my dear Miss Garrison.  You may not now consider us your friends, but some day you will look back and be thankful we took such desperate, dangerous means to protect you,” said Lady Saxondale, coming to the window.  Dorothy’s eyes were upon the outside world and they were dark and rebellious.  The older woman complacently stationed herself beside the girl and for a few moments neither spoke.

“I am ready to hear what you have to say,” came at last from Miss Garrison.

“It is not necessary to inform you that you were abducted—­”

“Not in the least!  The memory of the past two days is vivid enough,” said Miss Garrison, with cutting irony in her voice.

“But it may interest you to know the names of your abductors,” said the other, calmly.

“I could not miss them far in guessing, Lady Saxondale.”

“It was necessary for some one to deliver you from the villain you were to marry, by the most effective process.  There is but one person in all this world who cares enough for you to undertake the stupendous risk your abduction incurred.  You need not be told his name.”

“You mean,” said Dorothy, scarcely above a whisper, “that Philip Quentin planned and executed this crime?”

Lady Saxondale nodded.

“And I am his prisoner?” breathlessly.  “You are under his protection; that is all.”

“Do you call it protection to—­” began Dorothy, her eyes blazing, but Lady Saxondale interrupted firmly.

“You are his prisoner, then, and we are your jailers.  Have it as you will.”