Then she saw it was a grey horse.

Its owner, as Corporal Shorter predicted, had come to see “Old Gunter,” ere he went upon another expedition of duty.  Its owner was Rudyard Byng.

That was why so strange a coldness, as of apprehension or anxiety, had passed through Jasmine when the rider had come towards her out of the night.  Her husband was here.  If she called, he would come.  If she stretched out her hand, she could touch him.  If she opened a door, she would be in his presence.  If he opened the door behind her, he could—­

She stepped back hastily into the room, and drew her night-robe closely about her with sudden flushing of the face.  If he should enter her room—­she felt in the darkness for her dressing-gown.  It was not on the chair beside her bed.  She moved hastily, and blundered against a table.  She felt for the foot of the bed.  The dressing-gown was not there.  Her brain was on fire.  Where was her dressing-gown?  She tried to button the night-dress over her palpitating breast, but abandoned it to throw back her head and gather her golden hair away from her shoulders and breast.  All this in the dark, in the safe dusk of her own room....  Where was her dressing-gown?  Where was her maid?  Why should she be at such a disadvantage!  She reached for the table again and found a match-box.  She would strike a light, and find her dressing-gown.  Then she abruptly remembered that she had no dressing-gown with her; that she had travelled with one single bag—­little more than a hand-bag—­and it contained only the emergency equipment of a nurse.  She had brought no dressing-gown; only the light outer rain-proof coat which should serve a double purpose.  She had forgotten for a moment that she was not in her own house, that she was an army-woman, living a soldier’s life.  She felt her way to the wall, found the rain-proof coat, and, with trembling fingers, put it on.  As she did so a wave of weakness passed over her, and she swayed as though she would fall; but she put a hand on herself and fought her growing agitation.

She turned towards the bed, but stopped abruptly, because she heard footsteps in the hall outside—­footsteps she knew, footsteps which for years had travelled towards her, day and night, with eagerness; the quick, urgent footsteps of a man of decision, of impulse, of determination.  It was Rudyard’s footsteps outside her door, Rudyard’s voice speaking to some one; then Rudyard’s footsteps pausing; and afterwards a dead silence.  She felt his presence; she imagined his hand upon her door.  With a little smothered gasp, she made a move forward as though to lock the door; then she remembered that it had no lock.  With strained and startled eyes, she kept her gaze turned on the door, expecting to see it open before her.  Her heart beat so hard she could hear it pounding against her breast, and her temples were throbbing.