Dorothy laughed once more. "I have been locking him away, out of mischief; and now he's as safe as if he had stopped where he belonged, instead of coming to prowl about here at this hour of the night. It was the Britisher, Mary,—the same one who gave us such a turn this morning. He mistook me for my own brother, and I improved the chance to lead him away by the nose."
"But how?" Mary asked in astonishment. "What do you mean by all this, and what have you done with him?"
"I made him think that I could show him somewhat of importance to his cause; and so I lured him up into father's new cattle-shed, in the ten-acre lot, and I bolted him in there safely enough, unless he should manage to break the bar that holds the door. I could not lock it, for Trent has the key; but I should think the bar was strong enough to hold the door—at least until the arms be safely landed and stowed away."
"Then he was all alone?" Mary inquired, still too full of anxiety to make any present comment upon Dot's exploit.
"Yes, all alone."
"What did he say to you?"
"Say!" Dorothy exclaimed with a little laugh. "Oh, he said a good many things. He spoke most glibly of Mistress Dorothy Devereux; and he told me that if I'd say my name was the same as hers, he'd go away, and not inspect more closely the goings on he had overseen, and which he admitted were not to his liking."
"Dot!" And Mary's tone was distinctly reproachful.
"Well," almost defiantly, "he did say all that, and more too."
"But," asked Mary, "did he not find you out—that you were a girl masquerading in boy's apparel?"