A man was standing behind it. The French window had been opened at least eight inches, and the man stood partly in the aperture and partly in the room. He did not flinch. He did not even seem scared, nor yet disturbed. He was a middle-aged man, with grey hair, and a worn, rather sad face, and he wore a blue suit of clothes, which showed earth-stains and other evidences of an exciting and violent life. He was, in fact, the man whom Ilam had buried, and who described himself to Carpentaria as Mr. Jetsam. “What are you doing here?” demanded Pauline, in a low, brave voice. “What do you want?” She mastered her fear, though her heart was beating madly. She determined that, just as she had proved equal to difficult situations in the past, she would prove equal to this one. “Now that you have seen me, I want to talk to you,” replied the man. “You climbed up by the balcony, didn’t you?” she asked. “Yes,” said the intruder. “Nothing more simple. I found a ladder.” “Then you had better go as you came--and quickly!” said the girl. “And the alternative?” “Of course, I must call the master of the house. In any event I shall do that.” “No,” said Mr. Jetsam. “For heaven’s sake don’t call Jos.” “Jos!” repeated Pauline, astounded at this familiarity. “I said ‘Jos,’” the man insisted firmly. “What do you take me for?” “Naturally I take you for a burglar. What else should you be?” “Now, do I look like a burglar?” Mr. Jetsam asked severely. “Examine me, and tell me whether I look like a burglar.” “Whatever you are,” said Pauline, in a tone of decision, “I cannot remain talking to you like this. I am in charge of an invalid here, and you must go.” The man gazed at her fixedly. She thought his eyes were very sad eyes, and yet dignified, too. They reminded her of the eyes of Mrs. Ilam. And presently, when they grew moist, they reminded her even more of the eyes of Mrs. Ilam. “Miss Dartmouth,” said the man, “I can easily prove to you that I am not a burglar.” “Then you know me?” “I know of you. I know your name. I know you by sight. I know that you and your sister have come into this stricken and fatal house from sheer goodness of heart!’ “Do not talk like that,” said Pauline, whom any praise, save of her personal appearance, made extremely uncomfortable. She endeavoured to make her voice cold, forbidding, and accusatory, but she could not. The eyes of the grey-haired man seemed to hypnotize her, to rob her of initiative, and of the power to decide things for herself. “I will talk in any manner you like,” returned Mr. Jetsam, “provided you will let me come into the room and explain to you what I want.” “Impossible,” she replied. “Why impossible? It is, on the contrary, perfectly easy,” said Mr. Jetsam. “All I have to do is to close the window”--and he closed it--“to come into the room”--and he came in--“and to ask you to be good enough to listen.” He put down his felt hat on a chair.