"Yes, so I suppose," said Thresk. But just behind Ballantyne, on a
sideboard against the wall of the tent opposite to that wall where the
writing-table stood, he noticed a syphon of soda, a decanter of whisky
and a long glass which was not quite empty. He looked at Ballantyne
curiously and as he looked he saw him start and stare with wide-opened
eyes into the dim corners of the tent. Ballantyne had forgotten Thresk's
presence. He stood there, his body rigid, his mouth half-open and fear
looking out from his eyes and every line in his face--stark paralysing
fear. Then he saw Thresk staring at him, but he was too sunk in terror
to resent the stare.

"Did you hear anything?" he said in a whisper.

"No."

"I did," and he leaned his head on one side. For a moment the two men
stood holding their breath; and then Thresk did hear something. It was
the rustle of a dress in the corridor beyond the mat-screen.

"It's Mrs. Ballantyne," he said, and she lifted the screen and came in.

Thresk just noticed a sharp movement of revulsion in Ballantyne, but he
paid no heed to him. His eyes were riveted on Stella Ballantyne. She was
wearing about her throat now a turquoise necklace. It was a heavy
necklace of Indian make, rather barbaric and not at all beautiful, but it
had many rows of stones and it hid her throat--just as surely as her hand
had hidden it when she first saw Thresk. It was to hide her throat that
she had fled. He saw Ballantyne go up to his wife, he heard his voice and
noticed that her face grew grave and hard.