"When you went to your room," he asked, "did you find the window again unbolted?"
"No," she replied. "It was really my fault last night. I felt the heat oppressive. I opened the window myself and went out on to the verandah. When I came back I think that I did not bolt it."
"You forgot?" asked Ralston in surprise.
But this was not the only surprising element in the story.
"When you touched the man, he did not close with you, he made no effort to silence you," Ralston said. "That is strange enough. But that he should strike a match, that he should let you see his face quite clearly—that's what I don't understand. It looks, Mrs. Oliver, as if he almost wanted you to recognise him."
Ralston turned in his chair sharply towards her. "Did you recognise him?" he asked.
"Yes," Violet Oliver replied. "At least I think I did. I think that I had seen him before."
Here at all events it was clear that she was concealing nothing. She was obviously as puzzled as Ralston was himself.
"Where had you seen him?" he asked, and the answer increased his astonishment.
"In Calcutta," she answered. "It was the same man or one very like him. I saw him on three successive evenings in the Maidan when I was driving there."