“That is enough, madam, to convince me that my heart is yours. Sweet one, I throw myself at your feet. Let me be your protector. Let me hold you from your persecutors. Dearest lady, marry me and you are safe.”
“Thank heaven—thank heaven I have found a friend!” murmured Kitty.
“You agree?” said Mr. Bates, rising to his feet.
“Oh, sir, I am overcome with gratitude,” cried Kitty, throwing herself into his arms.
“An heiress—and mine,” Mr. Bates whispered.
“Mistress Clive, the gentleman has arrived—oh, lud! what has Kitty been up to?”
The landlord was standing at the door with his hands raised.
“'T is my brother, Jimmy Raftor,” said Kitty, coolly arranging the disordered hood of her cloak before the glass. “Jimmy is one of the best pistol-shots in all Ireland, and that's saying a good deal. Show the gentleman in, Mr. Landlord.”
Mr. Bates stood aghast. “Mistress Clive—not Kitty Clive of Drury Lane?” he faltered.
“I am Kitty Clive of Drury Lane, at your service, sir, if you should need another lesson to convince you that even the most ridiculous story, if plausibly told, will carry conviction to the most astute of men.”