Mr. Giles, the butler and general steward of the house, who had fired the shot and led the pursuit, was just explaining the exciting events of the night to his fellow-servants of the kitchen when Oliver’s knock was heard.  With considerable reluctance the door was opened, and then the group, peeping timorously over each other’s shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and exhausted.

“Here he is!” bawled Giles.  “Here’s one of the, thieves, ma’am!  Wounded, miss!  I shot him!”

They lugged the fainting boy into the hall, and then in the midst of all the noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet and gentle voice, which quelled it in an instant.

“Giles!” whispered the voice from the stairhead.  “Hush!  You frighten my aunt as much as the thieves did.  Is the poor creature much hurt?”

“Wounded desperate, miss,” replied Giles.

After a hasty consultation with her aunt, the same gentle speaker bade them carry the wounded person upstairs, and send to Chertsey at all speed for a constable and a doctor.  The latter arrived when the young lady and her aunt, Mrs. Maylie, were at breakfast, and his visit to the sick-room changed the state of affairs.  On his return he begged Mrs. Maylie and her niece to accompany him upstairs.

In lieu of the dogged, black-visaged ruffian they had expected to see, there lay a mere child, sunk in a deep sleep.

The ladies could not believe this delicate boy was a criminal, and when, on waking up, he told them his simple history, they were determined to prevent his arrest.

The doctor undertook to save the boy, and to that end entered the kitchen where Mr. Giles, Brittles, his assistant, and the constable were regaling themselves with ale.

“How is the patient, sir?” asked Giles.

“So-so,” returned the doctor.  “I’m afraid you’ve got yourself into a scrape there, Mr. Giles.  Are you a Protestant?  And what are you?” turning sharply on Brittles.

“Yes, sir; I hope so,” faltered Mr. Giles, turning very pale, for the doctor spoke with strange severity.

“I’m the same as Mr. Giles, sir,” said Brittles, starting violently.

“Then tell me this, both of you,” said the doctor.  “Are you going to take upon yourselves to swear that that boy upstairs is the boy that was put through the little window last night?  Come, out with it!  Pay attention to the reply, constable.  Here’s a house broken into, and a couple of men catch a moment’s glimpse of a boy in the midst of gunpowder-smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness.  Here’s a boy comes to that very same house next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him, place his life in danger, and swear he is the thief.  I ask you again,” thundered the doctor, “are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?”

Of course, under these circumstances, as Mr. Giles and Brittles couldn’t identify the boy, the constable retired, and the attempted robbery was followed by no arrests.