The words were a distinct command, and after a very decided pause he responded to it.  He rose with a quick, lithe movement, and handed her the letter with a brief bow.

An instant later, while she still waited for him to speak, he turned on his heel and left her.

Very soon after, Mrs. Errol came in, and then one after another those who were staying in the house for the entertainment.  But Anne had commanded herself by that time.  No one noticed anything unusual in her demeanour.

Nap was absent from the dinner—­table.  Someone said that he was superintending some slight alteration on the stage.  It was so ordinary an occurrence for him to fail to appear at a meal that no one was surprised.  Only Anne covered a deep uneasiness beneath her resolute serenity of manner.  She could not forget that basilisk stare.  It haunted her almost to the exclusion of everything else.  She had no thought to spare for the letter regarding her husband.  She could only think of Nap.  What had that stare concealed?  She felt that if she could have got past those baffling, challenging eyes she would have seen something terrible.

Yet when she met him again she wondered if after all she had disquieted herself for nought.  He was standing at the stage-entrance to the marquee, discussing some matter with one of the curtain-pullers when she arrived.  He stood aside for her to pass, and she went by quickly, avoiding his eyes.

She kept out of his way studiously till her turn came, then perforce she had to meet him again, for he was stationed close to the opening on to the stage through which she had to pass.  For the moment there was no one else at hand, and she felt her heart beat thick and fast as she waited beside him for her cue.

He did not speak to her, did not, she fancied, even look at her; but after a few dumb seconds his hand came out to hers and held it in a close, sinewy grip.  Her own was nerveless, cold as ice.  She could not have withdrawn it had she wished.  But she did not wish.  That action of his had a strange effect upon her, subtly calming her reawakened doubts.  She felt that he meant to reassure her, and she suffered herself to be reassured.

Later, she marvelled at the ingenuity that had so successfully blinded her, marvelled at herself for having been so blinded, marvelled most of all at the self-restraint that could so shackle and smother the fierce passion that ran like liquid fire in every vein as to make her fancy that it had ceased to be.

When her turn came at length she collected herself and left him with a smile.

She went through her part very creditably, but she was unspeakably thankful when it was over.

“You are tired, Lady Carfax,” Lucas murmured, when at length she found her way to the seat beside him that he had been reserving for her.

“A little,” she admitted.

And then suddenly the impulse to tell him the primary cause of her trouble came upon her irresistibly.  She leaned towards him and spoke under cover of the orchestra.