“Where is he?” she asks, with a dignity that only heightens the attractions of the cap and gown.  “Have you secured him?  Sir Adrian, where is the constable?  Have you sent for him?”

Sir Adrian, whose gaze is fixed upon the fair vision in the trailing white gown standing timidly in the door-way, forgets to answer his interrogator, and the others, taken by surprise, maintain a solemn silence.

“Why this mystery?” demands Lady FitzAlmont sternly.  “Where is the miscreant?  Where is the man that fired that murderous shot?”

“Here, madame,” replies the surgeon dryly, indicating Arthur Dynecourt by a motion of the hand.

“He—­who?  Mr. Dynecourt?” ejaculates her ladyship in a disappointed tone.  “It was all a mistake, then?  I must say, Mr. Dynecourt,” continues the old lady in an indignant tone, “that I think you might find a more suitable time in which to play off your jokes, or to practice target-shooting, than in the middle of the night, when every respectable household ought to be wrapped in slumber.”

“I assure you,” begins Arthur Dynecourt, who is strangely pale and discomposed, “it was all an accident—­an—­”

“Accident!  Nonsense, sir; I don’t believe there was any accident whatsoever!”

As these words pass the lips of the irascible old lady, several men in the room exchange significant glances.  Is it that old Lady FitzAlmont has just put their own thoughts into words?

“Let me explain to your ladyship,” says Sir Adrian courteously.  “We were just talking about that unfortunate affair of the Stewarts, and Maitland was showing us how it might have occurred.  I had the revolver in my hand so”—­pointing the weapon toward himself.

“Put down that abominable weapon at once, sir!” commands Lady FitzAlmont, in a menacing tone, largely mingled with abject fear.  As she speaks she retreats precipitately behind Florence, thus pushing that young lady to the fore.

“When my cousin unhappily stumbled against me, and the revolver went off,” goes on Sir Adrian.  “I’m deeply grieved, Lady FitzAlmont, that this should have occurred to disturb the household; but, really, it was a pure accident.”

“A pure accident,” repeats Arthur, from between his colorless lips.

He looks far more distressed by this occurrence than Sir Adrian, who had narrowly escaped being wounded.  This only showed his tenderness and proper feeling, as almost all the women present mutually agreed.  Almost all, but not quite.  Dora Talbot, for example, grows deadly pale as she listens to the explanation and watches Arthur’s ghastly face.  What is it like?  The face of a murderer?

“Oh, no, no,” she gasps inwardly; “surely not that!”

“It was the purest accident, I assure you,” protests Arthur again, as though anxious to impress this conviction upon his own mind.

“It might have been a very serious one,” says the surgeon gravely, regarding him with a keen glance.  “It might have meant death to Sir Adrian!”