He turned toward her, and she paused in the nervous collecting of her papers. His eyes were as hard as steel, his lips were set.
“Please don't ask Frederic to———” she began hurriedly.
“They must have left early,” he muttered, glancing at his watch. Returning to the table he struck the big, melodious gong a couple of sharp blows. For the first time in her recollection it sounded a jangling, discordant note, as of impatience.
She felt her heart sink; an oppressing sense of alarm came over her.
“Good night, Mr Brood. Don't think of coming home with———”
“Wait, Frederic will go with you.” It was a command. Ranjab appeared in the doorway. “Have Mrs Brood and Mr Frederic returned, Ranjab?”
“Yes, sahib. At ten o'clock.”
“If Mr Frederic is in his room, send him to me.”
“He is not in his room, sahib.”
The two, master and man, looked at each other steadily for a moment. Something passed between them.