“For me?  Certainly not!  Never in this world.”  He looked up at Thresk with a laugh.  “Cocktails are all very well for you, Mr. Thresk, who are here during a cold weather, but we who make our homes here—­we have to be careful.”

“Yes, so I suppose,” said Thresk.  But just behind Ballantyne, on a sideboard against the wall of the tent opposite to that wall where the writing-table stood, he noticed a syphon of soda, a decanter of whisky and a long glass which was not quite empty.  He looked at Ballantyne curiously and as he looked he saw him start and stare with wide-opened eyes into the dim corners of the tent.  Ballantyne had forgotten Thresk’s presence.  He stood there, his body rigid, his mouth half-open and fear looking out from his eyes and every line in his face—­stark paralysing fear.  Then he saw Thresk staring at him, but he was too sunk in terror to resent the stare.

“Did you hear anything?” he said in a whisper.

“No.”

“I did,” and he leaned his head on one side.  For a moment the two men stood holding their breath; and then Thresk did hear something.  It was the rustle of a dress in the corridor beyond the mat-screen.

“It’s Mrs. Ballantyne,” he said, and she lifted the screen and came in.

Thresk just noticed a sharp movement of revulsion in Ballantyne, but he paid no heed to him.  His eyes were riveted on Stella Ballantyne.  She was wearing about her throat now a turquoise necklace.  It was a heavy necklace of Indian make, rather barbaric and not at all beautiful, but it had many rows of stones and it hid her throat—­just as surely as her hand had hidden it when she first saw Thresk.  It was to hide her throat that she had fled.  He saw Ballantyne go up to his wife, he heard his voice and noticed that her face grew grave and hard.

“So you have come to your senses,” he said in a low tone.  Stella passed him and did not answer.  It was, then, upon the question of that necklace that their voices had been raised when he reached the camp.  He had heard Ballantyne’s, loud and dominant, the voice of a bully.  He had been ordering her to cover her throat.  Stella, on the other hand, had been quiet but defiant.  She had refused.  Now she had changed her mind.

Baram Singh brought in the soup-tureen a second afterwards and Ballantyne raised his hands in a simulation of the profoundest astonishment.

“Why, dinner’s actually punctual!  What a miracle!  Upon my word, Stella, I shan’t know what to expect next if you spoil me in this way.”

“It’s usually punctual, Stephen,” Stella replied with a smile of anxiety and appeal.

“Is it, my dear?  I hadn’t noticed it.  Let us sit down at once.”

Upon this tone of banter the dinner began; and no doubt in another man’s mouth it might have sounded good-humoured enough.  There was certainly no word as yet which, it could be definitely said, was meant to wound, but underneath the raillery Thresk was conscious of a rasp, a bitterness just held in check through the presence of a stranger.  Not that Thresk was spared his share of it.  At the very outset he, the guest whom it was such a rare piece of good fortune for Ballantyne to meet, came in for a taste of the whip.