He stood and gazed. Could he believe his eyes? Was this superb-looking woman with the flowing curls, the dark, bright beauty and imperial mien, the lad in velveteen who had shot the poacher last night? Why, Cleopatra might have looked like that, in the height of her regal splendor, or Queen Semiramis, in the glorious days that were gone.
"This is indeed a transformation," he said, coming forward. "Your disguise was perfect. I should never have known you for the youth I parted from ten minutes ago."
"I can never thank you sufficiently, Sir Everard. Ah, if you knew how I abhorred myself in that hateful disguise! Nothing earthly will ever induce me to put it on again."
"I trust not," he said, gravely; "let us hope it may never be necessary. You are safe here, Miss Silver, from the tyranny of your uncle and cousin. The friendless and unprotected shall never be turned from Kingsland Court."
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips, and once more the luminous eyes were swimming in tears.
"I would thank you if I could, Sir Everard," the sweet voice murmured: "but you overpower me! Your goodness is beyond thanks."
A footstep on the marble stair made itself unpleasantly audible at this interesting crisis. Miss Silver dropped the baronet's hand with a wild instinct of flight in her great black eyes.
"Return to your room," Sir Everard whispered. "Lock the door, and remain there until I apprise my mother of your presence here and prepare her to receive you. Quick! I don't want these prying prigs of servants to find you here."
She vanished like a flash.
Sir Everard walked down-stairs, and passed his own valet sleepily ascending.