The awful
character of her dressing-gown and the severity of the nightcap that
crowns her martial head would strike terror to the hearts of any
midnight marauders. They all move off in a body, and, guided
unconsciously by Florence, approach the smoking-room.
Voices loud in conversation can be heard as they draw near; the door is
slightly ajar. Florence drawing back as they come quite up to it, the
old lady waves her aside, and advances boldly to the front. Flinging
wide open the door, she bursts upon the astonished company within.
"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.
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