“Lady Bazelhurst, you--you--” and then he collapsed into the chair, bursting into maudlin tears. She stood over by the dressing-table and looked pitilessly upon the weak creature whose hiccoughing sobs filled the room. Her colour was high, her breathing heavy. In some way it seemed as though there was so much more she could have said had the circumstances been different. There came a knock at the door, but she did not respond. Then the door opened quietly and Penelope entered the room, resolutely, fearlessly. Evelyn turned her eyes upon the intruder and stared for a moment. “Did you knock?” she asked at last. “Yes. You did not answer.” “Was n't that sufficient?” “Not to-night, Evelyn. I came to have it out with you and Cecil. Where is he?” “There!” “Asleep?” with a look of amazement. “I hope not. I should dislike having to call the servants to carry him to his see. Poor old chap!” She went over and shook him by the shoulder. He sat up and stared at her blankly through his drenched eyes. Then, as if the occasion called for a supreme effort, he tried to rise, ashamed that his sister should have found him in his present condition. “Don't get up, Cecil. Wait a bit and I'll go to your--” “What have you to say to me, Penelope,” demanded Evelyn, a green light in her eyes. “It can wait. I prefer to have Cecil--understand,” she said, bitterly. “If it 's about our affair with Shaw, it won't make any difference whether Cecil understands or not. Has your friend asked you to plead for him? Does he expect me to take him up on your account and have him here?” “I was jesting when I said he would come to-morrow,” said Penelope, ignoring the thrust and hurrying to her subject. “I could n't go to sleep to-night if I neglected to tell you what I think of the outrage this morning. You and Cecil had no right to order Tompkins to shoot at Mr. Shaw. He is not a trespasser. Some one killed his dog to-day. When he pursued the coward, a second shot was fired at him. He was wounded. Do you call that fair fighting? Ambushed, shot from behind a tree. I don't care what you and Cecil think about it, I consider it despicable. Thank God, Cecil was not really to blame. It is about the only thing I can say to my brother's credit.” Lady Bazelhurst was staring at her young sister-in-law with wide eyes. It was the first time in all her petted, vain life that any one had called her to account. She was, at first, too deeply amazed to resent the sharp attack. “Penelope Drake!” was all she could say. Then the fury in her soul began to search for an outlet. “How dare you? How dare you?” “I don't mean to hurt you, I am only telling you that your way of treating this affair is a mistake. It can be rectified. You don't want to be lawless; you don't understand what a narrow escape from murder you have had. Evelyn, you owe reparation to Mr. Shaw. He is--”