Dalton stood with his hands in his pockets. “Oh, that's the game, is it?” he called, in a loud voice. He saw he had been outwitted, and an oath escaped him. He saw, too, that the door was a heavy one, and the effort to force it might bring in the neighbors. “Well, there's no hurry. I can wait,” he added savagely, “but if you know what's good for you, you'll come out now.” She had sunk down on her bed, hardly daring to breathe. Her only hope now lay in Martha, and she might not come back for an hour. Dalton sauntered away from the door and began an inspection of the room. The box on the chair came first. He lifted the lid and drew out the mantilla. “Rather good, this--wonder how she got hold of it--Oh, yes, I see, she must be repairing it. There are her work-basket and the spools of black silk.” He turned to the box again and read the name of “Rosenthal” stencilled on the bottom. “So that is what she is doing--they did not tell me what she worked at.” He spread out the mantilla again and looked it over carefully. Then a smile of cunning crossed his face. “Just what I want,” he said, folding it up and tucking it inside his capacious cape. 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--”