“Follow me, Mrs. Major,” Mr. Marrapit commanded; turned for the dining-room; from its interior faced about upon her.
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.