Dickey sat all night beside his rolling, moaning friend, unnerved, almost despairing, but the morning brought the change that gladdened his heart and gave him a chance to forget his fears and apprehensions long enough to indulge in an impressive, though inadequate, degree of profanity, with continued reference to a certain set of men whom the world called thieves, but whom he designated as dogs. About ten o'clock a telegram from Ostend came to the hotel for him. It read: “Are you not coming to Ostend for us? Jane.” An hour later a very pretty young lady in Ostend tore a telegram to pieces, sniffed angrily and vowed she would never speak to a certain young man again. His reply to her rather peremptory query by wire was hardly calculated to restore the good humor she had lost in not finding him at the dock. “Cannot come. Awfully sorry. Can't leave Brussels. Hurry on. Will explain here. Richard Savage.” Her sister-in-law and fellow-traveler from London was mean enough to tease her with sly references to the beauty of Brussels women and the fickleness of all mankind. And so there was stored away for Mr. Savage's benefit a very cruel surprise. The morning newspapers carried the story of Quentin's adventure to the Garrison home, and Dorothy's face, almost haggard as the result of a sleepless night, grew whiter still, and her tired eyes filled with dread. She did not have to recall their conversation of the night before, for it had not left her mind, but her thoughts went back to a former conversation in which he had ridiculed the bandits. The newspaper fell from her nerveless fingers, and she left the table, her breakfast untouched, stealing miserably to her room, to escape her mother's inquisitive eyes. Her wretched state was not improved by the visit of a veiled young woman later in the day. The visitor was undoubtedly a lady, but the story she poured into the unwilling ears was so astounding that Dorothy dismissed her indignantly before it was finished. The low-voiced, intense stranger, young and evidently beautiful, told her that Quentin's injuries were not inflicted by thieves, but by the hired agents of one who had cause to fear him. Before Miss Garrison could remonstrate, the stranger went into the details of a plot so cowardly that she was horrified--horrified all the more because, in a large measure, it sustained the charges made against her lover by Philip Quentin. When at last she could no longer endure the villifying recital she bade the woman to leave the house, hotly refusing to give countenance to the lies she was telling. The stranger desisted only after her abject pleading had drawn from the other a bitter threat to have her ejected by the servants.