“It was Ranjab,” said the girl, and instantly was filled with amazement. She had not seen the Hindu, had not even been thinking of him, and yet she was impelled by some mysterious intelligence to give utterance to a statement in which there was conviction, not conjecture. “Did you see him?” asked the other, looking at her sharply. “No,” admitted Lydia, still amazed. “I don't know why I said that.” Mrs Brood closed her boudoir door behind them. For an instant she stood staring at the knob, as if expecting to see it turn. “I know,” she said, “I know why you said it. Because it _was_ Ranjab.” She shivered slightly. “I am afraid of that man, Lydia. He seems to be watching me all the time. Day and night his eyes seem to be upon me.” “Why, should he be watching you?” asked Lydia bluntly. Yvonne did not notice the question. “Even when I am asleep in my bed, in the dead hour of night, he is looking at me. I can feel it. Oh, it is not a dream, for my dreams are of something or someone else--never of him. And yet he is there, looking at me. It--it is uncanny.” “Imagination,” remarked Lydia quietly. “He never struck me as especially omnipresent.” “Didn't you _feel_ him a moment ago?” demanded Yvonne irritably. The other hesitated, reflecting. “I suppose it must have been something like that.” They were still facing the door, standing close together. “Why do you feel that he is watching you?” “I don't know. I just feel it, that's all. Day and night. He can read my thoughts, Lydia, as he would read a book. Isn't--isn't it disgusting?” Her laugh was spiritless, obviously artificial. “I shouldn't object to his reading my thoughts,” said Lydia. “Ah, but you are Lydia. It's different. I have thoughts sometimes, my dear, that would not--but there! Let us speak of more agreeable things. Take off your coat--here, let me help you. What a lovely waist! You will pardon my costume, won't you, or rather the lack of one? I shan't dress until dinner-time. Sit down here beside me. No tea? A cigarette, then. No?” “I never smoke, you remember,” said the other. She was looking at Yvonne now with a curious, new-found interest in her serious eyes. “I came to explain to Mr Brood how it happens that------” “Poof! Never explain, my dear, never explain anything to a man!” cried Yvonne, lighting a cigarette. The flare of the match in the partially darkened room lit up her face with merciless candour. Lydia was conscious once more of the unusual pallor and a certain haggardness about the dark eyes. “But he is so eager to complete the------” “Do you forgive me for what I said to you last night?” demanded Yvonne, sitting down beside the girl on the _chaise longue_. The interruption was rude, perhaps, but it was impossible to resent it, so appealing was the expression in the offender's eyes. “It was so absurd, Mrs Brood, that I have scarcely given it a moment's thought. Of course, I was hurt at the time. It was so unjust to Mr Brood. It was------”