It was past midnight, after a wild ride through the storm, when an old gentleman and his wife, with their sick daughter, boarded a fast eastbound train at Namur. Had the officers of the law known of the abduction at that hour it would have been an easy matter to discover that the loose-flowing gown which enveloped the almost unconscious, partially veiled daughter, hid a garment of silk so fine that the whole world had read columns concerning its beauty. The gray beard of the rather distinguished old man could have been removed: at a single grasp, while the wife, also veiled, wore the clothing of a man underneath the skirts. The father and mother were all attention to their unfortunate child, who looked into their faces with wide, hopeless eyes and uttered no word of complaint, no sound of pain. At a small station some miles from the border line of the grand duchy of Luxemburg, the party left the coach and were met by a carriage in which they whirled away in the darkness that comes just before dawn. The horses flew swiftly toward the line that separates Belgium from the grand duchy, and the sun was barely above the bank of trees on the highlands in the east when the carriage of the impetuous travelers drew up in front of a picturesque roadside inn just across the boundary. The sweat-flecked horses were quickly stabled and the occupants of the vehicle were comfortably and safely quartered in a darkened room overlooking the highway. So ill was the daughter, explained the father, that she was not to be disturbed on any account or pretext. Fatigued by the long ride from their home in the north, she was unable to continue the journey to Luxemburg until she had had a day of rest. At the big city she was to be placed in the care of the most noted of surgeons. Full of compassion, the keeper of the inn and his good wife did all in their power to carry out the wishes of the distressed father, particularly as he was free with his purse. It did not strike them as peculiar that the coachman remained at the stable closely, and that early in the day his horses were attached to the mud-covered carriage, as if ready for a start on the notice of a moment. The good man and his wife and the few peasants who were told of the suffering guest, in order that they might talk in lowered voices and refrain from disturbing noises, did not know that the “mother” of the girl sat behind the curtains of an upstairs window watching the road in both directions, a revolver on the sill.