The news that Courant had been found and identified made Quentin all the more eager to carry out his design to restore Dorothy to her mother. He knew, and all knew, that it was but a question of a few days until Ugo and the police would put two and two together and come racing into the valley, certain that Courant had been killed by the abductors of Dorothy Garrison. One morning, therefore, shortly after the visit of Father Bivot, he asked Lord Saxondale for the use of a conveyance, announcing his intention to drive with Dorothy to the nearest railway station. There was dismay in the heart of everyone who sat at what had been a cheerful breakfast table. Quentin deliberately went on to say that he would take no lackey, preferring to expose none but himself in the undertaking. “Can you be ready in an hour, Dorothy?” he asked, after Saxondale had reluctantly consented. “Do you insist on carrying out this Quixotic plan, Phil?” she asked, after a long pause. “Positively.” “Then, I can be ready in half an hour,” she said, leaving the table abruptly. “Confound it, Phil; she'd rather stay here,” said Dickey, miserably. “I intend to restore her to her mother, just the same. There's no use discussing it, Dickey. If they don't throw me into jail at Brussels, I may return in a day or two.” There was a faint flush in Dorothy's cheeks as she bade good-bye to the party. Lady Saxondale sagely remarked, as the trap rolled out of sight among the trees below the castle, that the flush was product of resentment, and Dickey offered to wager £20 that she would be an engaged girl before she reached Brussels. “Do you know the road, Phil?” asked Dorothy, after they had gone quite a distance in silence. She looked back as she spoke, and her eyes uttered a mute farewell to the grim old pile of stone on the crest of the hill. “Father Bivot gave me minute directions yesterday, and I can't miss the way. It's rather a long drive, Dorothy, and a tiresome one for you, perhaps. But the scenery is pretty and the shade of the forest will make us think we are again in the Bois de la Cambre. “If I were you, I would not go to Brussels,” she said, after another long period of silence, in which she painfully sought for means to dissuade him from entering the city. She was thinking of the big reward for his capture and of the greedy officials who could not be denied. “Do you think I am afraid of the consequences?” he asked, bitterly. She looked at the white face and the set jaws and despaired. “You are not afraid, of course, but why should you be foolhardy? Why not put me in the coach for Brussels and avoid the risk of being seized by the police? I can travel alone. If you are taken, how can you or I explain?” she went on, eagerly. “You have promised to shield the rest,” he said, briefly.