“We have some people coming to dinner to-night, Captain Ballantyne,” she said.  “We shall dine at eight, so there’s an hour and a half still.”

She went over to a book-case and took out a book.  When she turned back into the room a change had taken place in her visitor.  Life had flickered into his face.  His eyes were wary and cunning.

“And why do you tell me that?” he asked in a voice which was thick and formidable.  She had a notion that he did not know who she was and then suddenly she became afraid.  She had discovered a secret—­his secret.  For once in the towns he had let himself go.  She had a hope now that he could not move and that he knew it; he sat as still as his arm-chair.

“I had forgotten to tell you,” she replied.  “I thought you might like to know beforehand.”

“Why should I like to know beforehand?”

She had his secret, he plied her with questions to know if she had it.  She must hide her knowledge.  Every instinct warned her to hide it.

“The people who are coming are strangers to India,” she said, “but I have told them of you and they will come expectant.”

“You are very kind.”

She had spoken lightly and with a laugh.  Ballantyne replied without irony or amusement and with his eyes fixed upon her face.  Mrs. Repton could not account for the panic which seized hold upon her.  She had dined in Captain Ballantyne’s company before often enough; he had now been for three days in her house; she had recognised his ability and had neither particularly liked nor disliked him.  Her main impression had been that he was not good enough for Stella, and it was an impression purely feminine and instinctive.  Now suddenly he had imposed himself upon her as a creature dangerous, beastlike.  She wanted to get out of the room but she dared not, for she was sure that her careful steps would, despite herself, change into a run.  She sat down, meaning to read for a few moments, compose herself and then go.  But no sooner had she taken her seat than her terror increased tenfold, for Ballantyne rose swiftly from his chair and walking in a circle round the room with an extraordinarily light and noiseless step disappeared behind her.  Then he sat down.  Mrs. Repton heard the slight grating of the legs of a chair upon the floor.  It was a chair at a writing-table close by the window and exactly at her back.  He could see every movement which she made, and she could see nothing, not so much as the tip of one of his fingers.  And of his fingers she was now afraid.  He was watching her from his point of vantage; she seemed to feel his eyes burning upon the nape of her neck.  And he said nothing; and he did not stir.  It was broad daylight, she assured herself.  She had but to cross the room to the bell beside the fireplace.  Nay, she had only to scream—­and she was very near to screaming—­to bring the servants to her rescue.  But she dared not do it.  Before she was half-way to the bell, before the cry was out of her mouth she would feel his fingers close about her throat.