"You stole me from my mother," sobbed Winifred despairingly. "I am sure
you did. You are afraid now lest some one should recognize me. I am 'the
image of my mother' that horrible man said, and I am to be taken away
because I resemble her. It is you who are frightened, not I. I defy you.
Even Mrs. Carshaw knew my face. I scorn you, I say, and if you think
your devices can deceive me or keep Rex from me, you are mistaken.
Before it is too late, let me go!"

Rachel Craik was, indeed, alarmed by the girl's hysterical outpouring.
But Winifred's taunts worked harm in one way. They revealed most surely
that the danger dreaded by both Voles and Meiklejohn did truly exist.
From that instant Rachel Craik, who felt beneath her rough exterior some
real tenderness for the girl she had reared, became her implacable foe.

"You had better calm yourself," she said quietly. "If you care to eat,
food will soon be brought for you and Mr. Grey. He is your
fellow-boarder for a few days!"

Then Winifred saw, for the first time, that the spacious room held
another occupant. Reclining in a big chair, and scowling at her, was
Mick the Wolf, whose arm Carshaw had broken recently.

"Yes," growled that worthy, "I'm not the most cheerful company, missy,
but my other arm is strong enough to put that fellow of yours out o'
gear if he butts in on me ag'in. So just cool your pretty lil head, will
you? I'm boss here, and if you rile me it'll be sort o' awkward for
you."

How Winifred passed the next few hours she could scarcely remember
afterward. She noted, in dull agony, that the windows of the
sitting-room she shared with Mick the Wolf were barred with iron.
So, too, was the window of her bedroom. The key and handle of the
bedroom lock had been taken away. Rachel Craik was her jailer, a
maimed scoundrel her companion and assistant-warder.

But, when the first paroxysms of helpless pain and rage had passed, her
faith returned. She prayed long and earnestly, and help was vouchsafed.
Appeal to her captors was vain, she knew, so she sought the consolation
that is never denied to all who are afflicted.

Neither Rachel Craik, nor the sullen bandit, nor the loud-voiced rascal
who had dared to say he was her father, could understand the cheerful
patience with which she met them next day.

"She's a puzzle," said Voles in the privacy of the apartment beneath. "I
must dope out some way of fixin' things. She'll never come to heel
again, Rachel. That fo