The flame destroyed it in an instant.
Jetsam sprang towards him, and then fell back as if stunned. Jetsam was beaten, after all. He gave a sort of groan and walked to the other side of the room, as if in a dream. He had failed, and he meant to commit suicide. All his trouble, all his risks, had gone for nothing. He raised the revolver again, and no one in the room quite guessed the tragedy that was preparing for them. His finger was on the trigger.
Immediately behind him was a draught-screen, and the draught-screen began mysteriously to sink forward. It lodged lightly on his shoulders. He turned, the revolver at his temple; and round the screen, from behind it, appeared Rosie.
“Don’t do that,” she said calmly, and she took the revolver out of his unresisting hand.
Jetsam turned round, saw that the person who had so mysteriously interfered was Rosie herself, and sank down on a chair.
“You have done me an evil turn,” he breathed, at the same time with a gesture ordering the Soudanese to leave the room.
“I have saved your life,” she said simply.
“Yes,” he replied, with a trace of bitterness. “That is what I mean. You are not the first who has saved my life. And if the first saviour had refrained we should all have been happier now.”
“Do not say that,” she whispered. “I——”
“You—you would never have met me,” he said curtly.