Her pride was having a mighty battle. For three long days had she maintained a stubborn resistance to all the allurements they could offer; she had been strong and steadfast to her purpose until this hour came to make her loneliness almost unendurable--the hour when she saw they were mean enough to pay her in the coin of her own making. Now she was crying for them to come and lift the pall of solitude, to brighten the world for her, to drive the deadly sickness out of her heart. They had ignored her for a whole day, because, she was reasonable enough to see, they felt she did not want them to be near her. Would they never come to her again? Pride was commanding her to scorn them forever, but a lonely heart was begging for fellowship. “Baker!” she called, suddenly, turning from the window, her face aglow, her breath coming fast, her heart bounding with a new resolution--or the breaking of an old one. Baker did not respond at once, and the now thoroughly aroused young lady hurried impatiently to the bedchamber in quest of her. The maid was seated in a window, with ears as deaf as a stone, reading the harrowing news from the latest newspaper that had come to Castle Craneycrow. Dorothy had read every line of the newest developments, and had laughed scornfully over the absurd clews the police were following. She had been seen simultaneously in Liverpool and in London and in Paris and in Brussels. And by reputable witnesses, too. “Baker!” “Yes, Miss,” and the paper rattled to the floor, for there was a new tone in the voice that called to her. “You may go to Lady Saxondale and say that I accept yesterday's invitation to dine with her and Lord Saxondale.” “Yesterday's invitation--you mean to-day's, Miss--” in bewildered tones. “I mean yesterday's, Baker. You forget that I have no invitation for to-day. Tell her that Miss Garrison will be delighted to dine with her.” Baker flew out of the room and downstairs with the message, the purport of which did not sift through her puzzled head until Lady Saxondale smiled and instructed her to inform Miss Garrison that she would be charmed to have her dine with her both yesterday and to-day. In the meantime Dorothy was reproaching herself for her weakness in surrendering. She would meet Quentin, perhaps be placed beside him. While she could not or would not speak to him, the situation was sure to be uncomfortable. And they would think she was giving in to them, and he would think she was giving in to him--and--but anything was better than exile. While standing at the window awaiting Baker's return, her gaze fell upon a solitary figure, trudging along the white, snake-like road, far down among the foothills--the figure of a priest in his long black robe. He was the first man she had seen on the road, and she watched him with curious, speculative eyes.