she had to sit there three hours each day, slipping on the top of
the horsehair-covered stool, to practice. In cold weather her German
governess sat in the frigid room, with a shawl and mittens, waiting
until the onyx clock on the mantel-piece showed that the three hours
were over.

Elinor had never heard the story of old Michael Doyle, or of his
son Jim. But one night--she was seventeen then, and Jim Doyle had
served three years of his sentence--sitting at dinner with her
father, she said:

"Some convicts escaped from the penitentiary today, father."

"Don't believe it," said Anthony Cardew. "Nothing about it in the
newspapers."

"Fraulein saw the hole."

Elinor had had an Alsatian governess. That was one reason why
Elinor's niece had a French one.

"Hole? What do you mean by hole?"

Elinor shrank back a little. She had not minded dining with her
father when Howard was at home, but Howard was at college. Howard
had a way of good-naturedly ignoring his father's asperities, but
Elinor was a suppressed, shy little thing, romantic, aloof, and
filled with undesired affections. "She said a hole," she affirmed,
diffidently. "She says they dug a tunnel and got out. Last night."