A man was standing behind it. The French window had been opened at least eight inches, and the man stood partly in the aperture and partly in the room. He did not flinch. He did not even seem scared, nor yet disturbed. He was a middle-aged man, with grey hair, and a worn, rather sad face, and he wore a blue suit of clothes, which showed earth-stains and other evidences of an exciting and violent life. He was, in fact, the man whom Ilam had buried, and who described himself to Carpentaria as Mr. Jetsam.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Pauline, in a low, brave voice. “What do you want?”
She mastered her fear, though her heart was beating madly. She determined that, just as she had proved equal to difficult situations in the past, she would prove equal to this one.
“Now that you have seen me, I want to talk to you,” replied the man.
“You climbed up by the balcony, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the intruder. “Nothing more simple. I found a ladder.”
“Then you had better go as you came—and quickly!” said the girl.
“And the alternative?”
“Of course, I must call the master of the house. In any event I shall do that.”
“No,” said Mr. Jetsam. “For heaven’s sake don’t call Jos.”