en trying to blow up the house? I insist on learning the meaning of
this disgraceful affair."

"There doesn't seem to be anything," says Tedcastle, "except gunpowder,
or rather the unpleasant remains of it. The burglar has evidently
flown."

"If you intend turning the matter into a joke," retorts Mr. Amherst,
"you had better leave the room."

"Nothing shall induce me to quit the post of danger," replies Luttrell,
unruffled.

Meantime, Sir Penthony, who is of a more suspicious nature, is making a
more elaborate search. Slowly, methodically he commences a tour round
the room, until presently he comes to a stand-still before the curtains
that conceal the trembling trio.

Mr. Amherst, in the middle of the floor, is busily engaged examining
the chips of china that remain after their _fiasco_,--and that
ought to tell the tale of a soup-plate.

Tedcastle comes to Sir Penthony's side.

Together they withdraw the curtains; together they view what rests
behind them.

Grand tableau!

Mr. Potts, with half his face blackened beyond recognition, glares out
at them with the courage of despair. On one side of him is Lady
Stafford, on the other Miss Massereene; from behind each of their
waists protrudes a huge and sooty hand. That hand belongs to Potts.

Three pairs of eyes gleam at the discoverers, silently, entreatingly,
yet with what different expressions! Molly is frightened, but evidently
braced for action; Mr. Potts is defiant; Lady Stafford is absolutely
convulsed with laughter. Already filled with a keen sense of the
comicality of the situation, it only wanted her husband's face of
indignant surprise to utterly unsettle her. Therefore it is that the
one embarrassment she suffers from is a difficulty in refraining from
an outburst of merriment.

There is a dead silence. Only the grating of Mr. Amherst's bits of
china mars the stillness. Plantagenet, staring at his judges, defies
them, without a word, to betray their retreat. The judges--although
angry--stare back at him, and acknowledge their inability to play the
sneak. Sir Penthony drops the curtain,--and the candle. Instantly
darkness covers them. Luttrell scrapes a heavy chair along the waxed
borders of the floor; there is some faint confusion, a rustle of
petticoats, a few more footsteps than ought to be in the room, an
uncivil remark from old Amherst about some people's fingers being all
thumbs, and then once more silence.

When, after a pause, Sir Penthony