Old John Dale had done his best to help in the search and aid the warders. It was only natural that at first he should be suspected of knowing where his son was hiding, in spite of the character he bore for straightforwardness and honesty. A very careful account was kept of the workmen employed in erecting the plant of what was already known as the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm. Marjorie’s sufferings those three weeks were terrible, but she hid her feelings and showed no more anxiety as to her brother’s whereabouts and welfare than was to be naturally expected in such a case. Curiously enough, with each passing day confidence in his ultimate escape grew until she felt no fear at all that he would be discovered and taken back to Princetown. While he was hidden in Jim’s workroom at Post Bridge Hall he was safe. Even the terrible risk her lover had taken for her sake ceased to worry her. She had to play a part, and she sometimes marvelled herself at the cool, deliberate way in which she played it. The one, the only person, she feared, was Robert Despard. Before Rupert’s escape she had avoided him on every possible occasion. Now, she no longer dared do so. For she felt he suspected her—suspected she had seen Rupert and knew where he was hiding. His work kept him so busy that he had not much time to persecute her. Still, she knew he was at watch—and when he was not watching her, she in turn, was watching him, terrified that whenever he left the farm he would bend his footsteps towards the Hall. She had only seen Jim once since the night of Rupert’s escape, when he had called at the farm with some message from Sir Reginald for her father. They had not been alone for a minute, but a glance at his face told her all was well. There were moments, of course, when she repented of what she had done. She told herself she was a coward. For repentance meant that she was putting her own happiness and future before that of her brother. Being a woman, she argued that since her brother was innocent it was her duty to help him to escape. It was criminal for an innocent man to suffer for the guilt of another, even though, by speaking, he could have cleared himself. In her eyes, his silence gave him an added nobility. Her soul revolted when she thought of the long years he might still have to endure shut up in the dreadful granite prison on the moors. For the first time in her life she realised what it meant to be a convict, a prisoner, a criminal. She knew now that these men she had sometimes seen working in the fields and quarries were treated worse than beasts of burden; in harness day and night, knowing not one minute’s liberty or freedom; doomed to years of silence, forced to implicit obedience of every order given them. Just enough food and just enough sleep dealt out to keep them alive.