"I suggest that by some glance or look this Arab had betrayed himself.
Your conscious self did not notice or remember, but with your subconscious self it was otherwise.
The subconscious never forgets.
We believe, too, that it can reason and deduce quite independently of the higher or conscious will.
Your subconscious self, then, believed that an attempt might be made to assassinate you, and succeeded in forcing its fear upon your conscious realization."
"That sounds very convincing, I admit," said Dermot, smiling.
"But not nearly so exciting," pouted Mrs Eversleigh.
"It is also possible that you may have been subconsciously aware of the hate felt by the man towards you.
What in old days used to be called telepathy certainly exists, though the conditions governing it are very little understood."
"Have there been any other instances?" asked Claire of Dermot.
"Oh yes, but nothing very pictorial - and I suppose they could all be explained under the heading of coincidence.
I refused an invitation to a country house once, for no other reason than the 'red signal.'
The place was burned out during the week.
By the way, Uncle Alington, where does the subconscious come in there?"
"I'm afraid it doesn't," said Sir Alington, smiling."But you've got an equally good explanation.
Come, now. No need to be tactful with near relatives."
"Well, then, nephew, I venture to suggest that you refused the invitation for the ordinary reason that you didn't much want to go, and that after the fire, you suggested to yourself that you had had a warning of danger, which explanation you now believe implicitly."
"It's hopeless," laughed Dermot. "It's heads you win, tails I lose."
"Never mind, Mr West," cried Violet Eversleigh. "I believe in your Red Signal.
Is the time in Mesopotamia the last time you had it?"
"Yes - until -"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing."
Dermot sat silent.
The words which had nearly left his lips were:
"Yes, until tonight."
They had come quite unbidden to his lips, voicing a thought which had as yet not been consciously realized, but he was aware at once that they were true.
The Red Signal was looming up out of the darkness.
Danger!
Danger close at hand!But why?
What conceivable danger could there be here? Here in the house of his friends?
At least - well, yes, there was that kind of danger.
He looked at Claire Trent - her whiteness, her slenderness, the exquisite droop of her golden head.
But that danger had been there for some time - it was never likely to get acute.
For Jack Trent was his best friend, and more than his best friend, the man who had saved his life in Flanders and been recommended for the V.C. for doing so.
A good fellow, Jack, one of the best.
Damned bad luck that he should have fallen in love with Jack's wife.
He'd get over it some day, he supposed.
A thing couldn't go on hurting like this forever.
One could starve it out - that was it, starve it out.
It was not as though she would ever guess - and if she did guess, there was no danger of her caring.
A statue, a beautiful statue, a thing of gold and ivory and pale pink coral... a toy for a king, not a real woman...
Claire... the very thought of her name, uttered silently, hurt him...
He must get over it.
He'd cared for women before...
"But not like this!" said something.
"Not like this."
Well, there it was.
No danger there - heartache, yes, but not danger.
Not the danger of the Red Signal.