gazed at the sleeper's
face. One look, and his flashing first suspicion was a certainty.
This dark, youthful, faultlessly beautiful face was a woman's face. A
girl in velveteen shooting-jacket and pantaloons, handsome as some
dusky Indian princess, lay asleep before him.

Sir Everard Kingsland, in the last stage of bewilderment and amaze,
retreated precipitately and shut the door.

The instant the chamber door closed the mysterious young man raised
himself on his elbow, very wide awake, his handsome face lighted with a
triumphant smile.

"So," he said, "step the second has been taken, and Sir Everard has
discovered the sex of his preserver. As he is too delicate to disturb
a slumbering lady in disguise, the slumbering lady must disturb him!"

He--or rather she--leaped lightly off the bed, picked up the scarlet
bandanna, twisted scientifically the abundant black hair, bound it up
with the handkerchief, and crushed down over all the slouched hat.
Then, with the handsome face overshadowed, and all expression screwed
out of it, she opened the door, and saw, as she expected, the young
baronet in the passage.

He stopped at once at sight of her. He had been walking up and down,
with an exceedingly surprised and perplexed face; and now he stood with
his great, Saxon-blue eyes piercingly fixed upon the young person in
velveteen, whose jacket and trousers told one story, and whose
streaming dark hair told quite another.

"It is past sunrise, Sir Everard," his preserver began, with a
reproachful glance, "and you have broken your promise. You said you
would awake me."

"I beg your pardon," retorted Sir Everard, quietly; "I have broken no
promise. I came to your room ten minutes ago to arouse you, as I said
I would. I knocked thrice, and received no reply. Then I entered.
You must excuse me for doing so. How was I to know I was entertaining
angels unaware?"

With a low cry of consternation his hearer's hands flew up and covered
his face, to hide the blushes that were not there.

"Your red handkerchief and hat do you good service in your masquerade,
mademoiselle. I confess I should never suspect a lady in that suit of
velveteen."

With a sudden theatrical abandon the "lady in velveteen" flung herself
on her knees at his feet.

"Forgive me!" she cried, holding up her clasped hands. "Have pity on
me! Don't reveal my secret, for Heaven's sake."

"Forgive you!" repeated Sir Everard, hastily. "What have I to