When Frank Maynard and Arthur Prescott arrived at the house in Lowndes Square, they found Captain Bradshaw in the drawing-room. He was still a light active figure, although he walked rather bent; his hair and whiskers were nearly white, and, until he spoke, he looked an old man; but when he did so, his face lit up, his eyes sparkled, and his lip played in a smile, and in the manner of his talk he was as young again as ever. There was a fourth person present, of whom no mention has yet been made. Alice Heathcote was a niece of Captain Bradshaw, the daughter of his second wife’s sister, and to whom he was guardian. The mother had died ten years before, and Alice, except when away at school, had lived with him ever since. A tall girl, with a thoughtful face, and good features; a broad rather than a high forehead, light grey eyes, a profusion of brown hair, and a slight figure, which almost leant back in its lissome grace. Her age was about twenty. “That is right, Frank,” Captain Bradshaw said, as the young men entered. “I am glad to see that all this wandering about over the continent has not destroyed your habits of punctuality. Mr. Prescott, I am glad to see you.” “What on earth have you been doing with yourself, Frank?” Alice Heathcote said. “Your hand is all cut, and you have a great scratch on your cheek.” Frank glanced at his hand. “Really, Alice, I did not know it. I tumbled down, crossing Knightsbridge. It is a mere trifle: only the skin off. I will run up to your room, uncle; I shall not be a minute.” “Frank has just been doing a very gallant action,” Prescott said, when his friend had left the room; “he saved a man’s life, at the risk of his own, and a very near thing it was, too.” And he then related what had taken place. Captain Bradshaw listened with eager interest, and Alice, whose cheek had paled when she first heard Prescott’s announcement of the risk Frank had run, flushed up with pleasure and excitement at the particulars. The story was just finished, and the questions which arose from it answered, when Frank came downstairs again. “Well, Frank, Prescott here is telling us that you have been risking your life in the most reckless way, and becoming an amateur member of the Humane Society. Joking apart, my dear boy, it was a very plucky thing, and the speed with which it had to be done shows that you have a cool head as well as a strong arm and good pluck.” “What a fellow you are, Prescott!” Frank said, in a tone of indignant remonstrance, and colouring up as a girl might have done. “Prescott has been making a mountain out of a molehill, uncle. A man slipped down, and I picked him up. It was a mere impulse; nothing could be simpler or more natural.” “Stuff and nonsense, Frank! you saved the man’s life; it showed pluck and presence of mind, and the fact that you were knocked down speaks for itself what a very near thing it was. I am proud of you, my boy, and so is Alice, ain’t you, Alice?”