He turned back into the room with an odd, unsteady smile twitching the corner of his mouth.
The hand with which he helped himself to a drink shook slightly, and he looked at it with contemptuous attention. His favourite briar was lying in an ash-tray, where he had left it earlier in the day. He took it up, filled and lighted it. Then he sauntered out on to the verandah, drink in hand.
The night was dark and chill. He could barely discern the cypresses against the sky. He sat down in a hammock-chair in deep shadow and proceeded to smoke his pipe.
From far away, in the direction of the jungle, there came the haunting cry of a jackal, and a little nearer he heard the weird call of an owl. But close at hand there was no sound. He lay in absolute stillness, gazing along the verandah with eyes that looked into the future.
Minutes passed. His pipe went out, and his drink remained by his side forgotten. He wandered in the depths of reverie….
Suddenly from the compound immediately below him there came a faint rustle as of some living creature moving stealthily, and in a second Max was back in the present. He sat up noiselessly and peered downwards.
The faint rustle continued. His thoughts flashed to the tiger he had slain the day before at Khantali. Could this be another prowling in search of food? He scarcely thought so, yet the possibility gave him a sensation of bristling down the spine. He remained motionless in his chair, however, alert, listening.
Softly the intruder drew near. He heard the tamarisk bushes part and close again. But he heard no sound of feet. It was a cat-like advance, slow and wary.
He wondered if the creature could see him there in the dark, wondered if he were a fool to remain but decided to do so and take his chances. Max Wyndham's belief in his own particular lucky star was profound.
Nearer and nearer drew the unseen one, came close to him, seemed to pause,—and passed. Max was holding his breath. His hands were clenched. He was strung for vigorous resistance.