“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.”
Lady Saxondale proceeded to relate the history of Philip Quentin's achievement. Instead of sailing for New York, he surrendered to his overpowering love and fell to work perfecting the preposterous plan that had come to him as a vision in the final hour of despair. There was but little time in which to act, and there was stubborn opposition to fight against. The Saxondales were the only persons to whom he could turn, and not until after he had fairly fought them to earth did they consent to aid him in the undertaking. There remained to perform, then, the crowning act in this apparently insane transaction. The stealing of a woman on whom the eyes of all the world seemed riveted was a task that might well confound the strategy of the most skillful general, but it did not worry the determined American.
Wisely he chose the wedding day as the best on which to carry out his project. The hulla-balloo that would follow the nonappearance of the bride would throw the populace and the authorities into a state of confusion that might last for hours. Before they could settle down to a systematic search, the bold operator would be safely in the last place they would suspect, an English lord's playhouse in the valley of the Alzette. Nothing but the most audacious daring could hope to win in such an undertaking. When Mrs. Garrison's coachman and footman came forth in all their august splendor on the night of the wedding, they were pounced upon by three men, overpowered, bound and locked in a small room in the stables. One of the desperadoes calmly approached the servants' quarters, presented a bold face (covered with whiskers), and said he had come for Miss Garrison's trunks. Almost insane with the excitement of the occasion, the servants not only escorted him to the bride's room, but assisted him in carrying two trunks downstairs. He was shrewd enough to ascertain which trunk was most needed, and it was thrown into a buggy and driven away by one of the trio.
When the carriage stopped for the first time to permit the masked man to thrust his revolver into the faces of the occupants, the trunk was jerked from that same buggy and thrown to the boot of the larger vehicle. Of course, having absolute control of the carriage, it was no trick, if luck attended, for the new coachman and footman to drive away with the unsuspecting bride and her companions. It is only the ridiculously improbable projects that are successful, it has been said. Certainly it was proven in this case. It is not necessary to tell the full story, except to say that the masked man who appeared at the carriage door in the little side street was Quentin; that the foot-man was Dickey Savage, the driver Turk. In the exchange of clothing with the deposed servants of Mrs. Garrison, however, Turk fell into a suit of livery big enough for two men of his stature.
The deserted house was beyond the city limits, and had been located the day before by Turk, whose joy in being connected with such a game was boundless. Other disguises, carefully chosen, helped them on to the Grand Duchy, Quentin as the gray-bearded man, Savage as the old woman. The suffering of Dorothy Garrison during that wild night and day was the only thing that wrung blood from the consciences of these ruthless dare-devils. Philip Quentin, it must be said, lived years of agony and remorse while carrying out his part of the plan. How the plot was carried to the stage where it became Lady Saxondale's duty to acquaint Dorothy Garrison with the full particulars, the reader knows. It only remains to say that good fortune favored the conspirators at every turn, and that they covered their tracks with amazing effectiveness. Utterly cut off from the eyes of the world, the captive found herself powerless to communicate with the hysterical people who were seeking her in every spot save the right one.
“Now that you have finished this remarkable story and have pleaded so prettily for him, may I ask just what Mr. Quentin expects of me?” asked Dorothy, cold, calm, and entirely the mistress of herself and the million emotions that Lady Saxondale's disclosures aroused.
“He expects you to give him your heart,” said her ladyship, slowly. Dorothy fell back against the wall, aghast, overcome by this crowning piece of audacity.
“Dorothy, a week ago you loved Phil Quentin; even when you stepped inside the carriage that was to take you to the altar you loved him better—”
“I did not! I hate him!” cried Dorothy.