He now made a tour of the room, his tread like that of a cat, lifted the plates on the dresser as if in search of something behind them, rummaged through the work-basket, opening and turning the leaves of a book lying on the table.  So occupied was he that he did not hear Martha’s noiseless step nor know that she had entered the room.

For a moment she stood watching his every movement.  The man she saw was well-knit and rather handsome, not much over thirty, with clean-shaven face, drooping eyelids, and a hard-set lower jaw.  She had a suspicion that it might be Dalton, but was not sure, never having seen him but once, when he was much younger.

“Who do you want to see?” she asked at last, in a firm voice.

Dalton wheeled sharply, and took her in with one comprehensive glance.  He had always prided himself on never having been outwitted or taken unawares, and that Lady Barbara could lock herself in her room, and that this woman could creep up behind him unobserved, rather nettled him.

“I don’t know that it is any of your business, my good woman,” he answered, his insolence increasing as he noticed how mild and inoffensive she appeared to be; “but if it makes any difference to you, I will tell you that I am waiting for my wife.”

“Where is she?” Martha’s voice was clear and incisive, with a ring of determination through it that, for the moment, disconcerted him.

Dalton pointed to the bedroom door.

Martha stepped across the room and tried the knob.  “Open the door, Lady Barbara.  It’s Martha.  Who is this man?”

The bolt shot back and Barbara’s frightened face peered out.  “Oh, thank God you have come!” she moaned, her teeth chattering.  “It is Mr. Dalton.  I ordered him from the room, and he would not go, and—­”

“Oh, it’s Mr. Guy Dalton, is it?” Martha cried, facing him.  “The man who’s been a curse to you ever since you met him.  I know every crook and turn of you—­you ought to be ashamed of yourself to treat a woman as you have treated Lady Barbara O’Day.  Now, sir, this is my room and you can’t stay in it a minute longer.  There’s the door!”

Dalton laughed a dry, crackling laugh.  “You are a regular virago, are you not, my dear woman?” he said.  “Quite refreshing to hear your defense of a woman on whom I have spent every shilling I had.  Now, do not get excited—­cool down a bit, and we will talk it over—­and while we are at it, please make me a cup of tea.  It is about my hour.  When my wife comes to her senses, as she will in a minute, she will get over her tantrums and think better of it.”

Martha strode straight toward him until her capacious body was within a few inches of his shirt-front, her hands tightly clinched.  “Don’t make any mistake, Mr. Dalton.  Your airs won’t go here.  My brother Stephen looks after me and after Lady O’Day, and he and another man you wouldn’t care to meet are looking after you.”