With rare dignity the masterly woman slowly arose; martially she poised against the hat-rack; with stately mien marched steadily towards him. Temporarily she had the grip of Old Tom--was well aware, at least, of his designs upon her purity, and superbly she combated him. With proud and queenly air she drew on--Mr. Marrapit felt that the swift suspicion which had taken him had misjudged her. Mrs. Major reached the mat. Old Tom gave a playful little twitch of her legs, and she jostled the doorpost. With old-world courtesy she bowed apology to the post. “Beg pardon,” she graciously murmured; stood swaying. X. Step by step with her as she had crossed the hall, Mr. Fletcher, recovering from the coward fear in which he shivered outside the door, had crept forward along the path around the house. As Mrs. Major stood swaying upon the threshold of the dining-room he reached the angle; peered round it; in horror sighted Bill's figure pendant from Margaret's window. Thrice the bell-mouth of his gun described a shivering circle; tightly he squeezed his eyelids--pressed the trigger. BANG! Mr. Marrapit bounded six inches--hardly reached the earth again when, with a startled scream, Mrs. Major was upon him, again her arms about his neck. And now shriek pursued shriek, tearing upwards through her throat. Old Tom had loosed the ends of all her nerves. Like bolting rabbit in young corn the tearing discharge of that gun went madly through them, and lacerated she gave tongue. Stifled by the bony shoulder that pressed against his face, Mr. Marrapit went black. He jerked his head free, put up his face, and giving cry for cry, shrilled, “George! George! George!” The din reached George where from his window he leaned, crying on Abiram in the man-hunt across the garden. He drew in his head, bounded down the stairs. Over Mrs. Major's back, bent inwards from the toes to the rock about which she clung, Mr. Marrapit's empurpled face stared at him. Upon George's countenance the sight struck a great grin; his legs it struck to dead halt. Mrs. Major's shrieks died to moans. “Action!” Mr. Marrapit gasped. “Remove this creature!” George put a hand upon her back. It shot a fresh shriek from her; she clung closer. “Pantaloon!” Mr. Marrapit strained. “Crush that grin! Action! Remove this woman! She throttles me! The pressure is insupportable. I am Sinbad.” George again laid hands. Again Mrs. Major shrieked; tighter clung. Mr. Marrapit, blacker, cried, “Zany!” “Well, what the devil can I do?” George asked, hopping about the pair; Mrs. Major's back as responsive to his touch as the keys of a piano to idle fingers. “You run to and fro and grin like a dog,” Mr. Marrapit told him. “Each time you touch her she screams, grips me closer. I shall be throttled. Use discretion. Add to mine your assurance of her safety. She is not herself.” George chuckled. “She's not. She's tight as a drum.” “Liar!” moaned Mrs. Major. “Intoxicated?” Mr. Marrapit asked. “Blind.”