His bed had creaked, and an answering echo as if something had slipped
or slid, perhaps the sole of a bare foot on the fibrous floor matting,
at the window, fell upon his senses. Turning his face toward the sound
he waited, eyes trying to pierce the gloom, and ear attuned. He almost
cried out in alarm as something floated through the dark from the
window and fell with a soft thud upon his face. He brushed at the
something--perhaps a bat, or a lizard, or a snake--with his hand and
received a sharp prick, a little dart of pain in a thumb. He sprang
from the bed, lighted the wick that floated in the iron lamp, and
discovered that the thing of dread was a rose, its petals red against
the white sheet.

He knew who must have thrown the rose, and almost wished that it had
been a chance missil, even a snake, but he put the lamp down, passed
into the bathroom, and unbarring the wooden door, called softly, "Who
is there?"

From the cover of an oleander a slight girlish form rose up and came to
the door saying, "It is Bootea, Sahib; do not be angry,--there is
something to be said."

By the arm he led her within and bidding her wait, passed to the
bedroom and drew the heavy curtains of the windows. Then he went
through the drawing-room and out to the verandah, where the watchman
lay asleep on his roped charpoy. Barlow woke him: "There's a thief
prowling about the bungalow. Do not sleep till I give you permission.
See that no one enters," he commanded.

He went back to his room, closed and barred the door, and told Bootea
to come.