“My dear,” interrupted the Parisienne, carelessly flicking the ash into a _jardinière_ at her elbow, “it is very naughty to smoke, and clumsy women never should be naughty. If you really feel clumsy, don't, for my sake, ever try to do anything wicked. There is nothing so distressing as an awkward woman trying to be devilish.” “Oh, Lydia couldn't be devilish if she tried!” cried Frederic, with a quick glance at the girl's half-averted face. “Don't say that, Frederic,” she cried. “That's as much as to say that I _am_ clumsy and awkward.” “And you are not,” said Yvonne decisively. “You are very pretty and graceful and adorable, and I am sure you could be very wicked if you set about to do it.” “Thank you,” said Lydia dryly. “By the way, this window looks almost directly down into our courtyard,” said Yvonne abruptly. She was leaning on her elbow, looking out upon the housetops below. “There is my balcony, Freddy. And one can almost look into your father's lair from where I sit.” She drew back from the window suddenly, a passing look of fear in her eyes. It was gone in a second, and would have passed unnoticed but for the fact that Frederic was, as usual, watching her face with rapt interest. He caught the curious transition and involuntarily glanced below. The heavy curtains in the window of his father's retreat were drawn apart, and the dark face of Ranjab, the Hindu, was plainly distinguishable. He was looking up at the window in which Mrs Brood was sitting. Although Frederic was far above, he could see the gleaming white of the man's eyes. The curtains fell quickly together and the gaunt, brown face was gone. An odd feeling of uneasiness came over the young man. It was the feeling of one who suddenly realises that he is being spied upon. He could not account for the faint chill that ran through his body, leaving him strangely cold and drear. What was the meaning of that intense scrutiny from his father's window? Was Ranjab alone in the room? How did he happen to expose himself at the very instant Yvonne appeared in the window above? These and other questions raced through Frederic's puzzled brain. Out of them grew a queer, almost uncanny feeling that the Hindu had called to her in the still, mysterious voice of the East, and, although no sound had been uttered, she had heard as plainly as if he actually had shouted to her across the intervening space. He recalled the tales of the old men, in which they spoke of the unaccountable swiftness with which news leaped across the unpopulated deserts, far in advance of any material means of transmission. Along the reaches of the Nile and in the jungles of India, weird instances of the astonishing projection of thought across vast spaces were constantly being reported. There was magic in the air. News travelled faster than the swiftest steed, even faster than the engines of man, into the most remote places, and yet there was no visible, tangible force behind the remarkable achievement.