"Quite true. But for the direct interposition of Providence, in the
shape of a handsome lad in velveteen, who shot my assailant, I would be
lying now in Brithlow Wood yonder, as dead as any Kingsland in the
family vault."

And then, while Lady Kingsland gazed at him breathlessly, Sir Everard
related his midnight adventure.

"Good heavens!" my lady cried, clasping him in her arms. "Oh, to think
what might have happened! My boy--my boy!"

"Very true, mother; but a miss is as good as a mile, you know.
Poetical justice befell my assailant; and here I am safe and sound,
sipping chocolate."

"And the preserver of your life, Everard--where is he?"

"Upstairs, waiting like patience on a monument; and by the same token,
fasting all this time! But it isn't a he, _ma mère_; it's a she."

"What?"

Sir Everard laughed.

"Such a mystified face, mother! Oh; it's highly sensational and
melodramatic, I promise you! Sit down and hear the sequel."

And then, eloquently and persuasively, Sir Everard repeated Miss
Sybilla Silver's extraordinary story, and Lady Kingsland was properly
shocked.