For ten, for twenty, for thirty seconds I stood so; and then the silence was broken by the unmistakable rustle of a woman's skirts. The sound came softly towards me through the darkness. It was my turn to let loose my held breath with a gasp, and in another moment I should have been through the window and running for it; when a woman's whisper halted me. “Is that you, Charles? And why did you not rap upon the shutter?” So some one called Charles was expected? Then, ticked off my thoughts almost automatically, the lady somewhere near me in the dark might have her own reasons for not caring to alarm the house just then! The thought steadied me to action. “Shh,” I whispered, feeling behind me for the window, and gradually opening it again. “S-h-h! No, it is not Charles”--and I put one foot backward across the sill. “It is not Charles, but Charles has sent me to say----” Click!--went something by the window, and the room was flooded with sudden brilliance from a dozen electric globes. And again, click!--and I looked with blinking eyes at the muzzle of a cocked pistol held by the most beautiful, the most be-jeweled, the most determined-looking young woman it has ever been my lot to meet. “Who are you?” she asked in a voice that was at once hoarse and sweet. “Who are you? And what do you want? And where is Charles?” As I stood there dripping moisture upon the oiled floor, with my hands in the air--they had gone up quite involuntarily--I must have been the very picture of idiocy and discomfiture. I wondered if Charles, whoever the devil Charles might be, was always welcomed with a cocked pistol. Probably not; but, I wondered, how did she happen to have a pistol with her? I wondered why neck, breast, hair, arms, and hands should be ablaze with the diamonds that accentuated her lithe and vivid loveliness. I wondered why, now that she saw I was not Charles, she did not alarm the house. I wondered everything; but nothing to the point. And as I stood wondering she repeated: “Who are you? And what do you want?” “Madame,” I stammered, my jarred brain fastening upon the sentence she had interrupted, “Charles sent me to--to say to you----” “Charles who?” she asked. And as tense as was her face, a gleam of merriment shot through her eyes. “Charles who?” she repeated. Charles was not one of the points upon which the Irish maid had given me information. The lady with the pistol considered for a moment. “You are not very clever, are you?” she said. “If you will pardon me,” I said, “I think I had better be going. I seem to have mistaken the house.” “You at least seem to have mistaken the proper manner in which to enter it,” she returned. “Why, as to the mode of entrance,” I said, “I might plead that the mistake appears to have been less in that than in the person who employed it.”