Resolutely she turned to the window, stifling all qualms. She would not
be a wretched coward. She would see for herself.

The night was steaming hot, and there was a smell of mildew in the air.
A swarm of mosquitoes buzzed in the glare thrown by the lamp with a
shrill, attenuated sound like the skirl of far-away bagpipes. A creature
with bat-like wings flapped with a monstrous ungainliness between the
outer posts of the verandah. From across the compound an owl called on a
weird note of defiance. And in the dim waste of distance beyond she
heard the piercing cry of a jackal. But close at hand, so far as the
rays of the lamp penetrated, she could discern nothing.

Stay! What was that? A bar of light from another lamp lay across the
verandah, stretching out into the darkness. It came from the room next
to the one in which she stood. Her heart gave a sudden hard throb. It
came from Monck's room.

That meant--that meant--what did it mean? That Monck had returned at
that unusual hour? Or that there really was a native intruder who had
found the window unfastened and entered?

Again the impulse to retreat and call Peter to deal with the situation
came upon her, but almost angrily she shook it off. She would see for
herself first. If it were only Monck, then her fancy had indeed played
her false and no one should know it. If it were any one else, it would
be time enough then to return and raise the alarm.

So, reasoning with herself, seeking to reassure herself, crying shame on
her fear, she stepped noiselessly forth into the verandah and slipped,