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