And yet—­in common honesty she had to admit it—­she did not want to go.  The attraction that held her was as yet too intangible to be definitely analyzed, but she could not deny its existence.  She did not love the man—­oh, surely she did not love him—­for she did not want to marry him.  She brought her feelings to that touchstone and it seemed that they were able to withstand the test.  But neither did she want to cut herself finally adrift from all chance of contact with him.  It would hurt her to go.  Probably—­almost certainly—­she would wish herself back again.  But, the question remained unanswered, ought she to stay?  For the first time her treasured independence arose and mocked her.  She had it in her heart to wish that the decision did not rest with herself.

It was at this point, while she was yet deep in her meditations, that a slight sound at the window made her look up.  It was almost an instinctive movement on her part.  She could not have said that she actually heard anything besides the falling rain which had died down to a soft patter among the trees in the compound.  But something induced her took up, and so doing, she caught a glimpse of a figure on the verandah without that sent all the blood in her body racing to her heart.  It was but a momentary glimpse.  The next instant it was gone, gone like a shadow, so that she found herself asking breathlessly if it had ever been, or if by any means her imagination had tricked her.  For in that fleeting second it seemed to her that the past had opened its gates to reveal to her a figure which of late had drifted into the back alleys of memory—­the figure of the dreadful old native who, in some vague fashion, she had come to regard as the cause of her husband’s death.

She had never seen him again since that awful morning when oblivion had caught her as it were on the very edge of the world, but for long after he had haunted her dreams so that the very thought of sleep had been abhorrent to her.  But now—­like the grim ghost of that strange life that she had so resolutely thrust behind her—­the whole revolting personality of the man rushed vividly back upon her.

She sat as one petrified.  Surely—­surely—­she had seen him in the flesh!  It could not have been a dream.  She was certain that she had not slept.  And yet—­how had that horrible old Kashmiri beggar come all these hundreds of miles from his native haunts?  It was not likely.  It was barely possible.  And yet she had always been convinced that in some way he had known her husband beforehand.  Had he come then of set intention to seek her out, perhaps to attempt to extract money from her?

She could not answer the question, and her whole being shrank from the thought of going out into the darkness to investigate.  She could not bring herself to it.  Actually she dared not.

Minutes passed.  She sat still gazing and gazing at the blank darkness of the window.  Nothing moved there.  The wild beating of her heart died gradually down.  Surely it had been a mistake after all!  Surely she had fallen into a doze in the midst of her reverie and dreamed this hateful apparition with the gleaming eyes and famished face!