It was more than a relief from the strangeness of things when, as the caravan came at last in sight, another vehicle appeared beside it--nothing less ordinary and everyday-looking than the doctor’s car--and the school doctor, Rene’s father, came himself to meet them. “Tch, tch. What’s this now, Mrs. Grimes? Your husband said you’d gone for the young lady, but I could hardly credit it. Well, I was just off to the school myself, it happens. Now, my dear--Betty Carlyle, isn’t it? you see, I’ve heard all about you from Rene, and I know the story of the Cup, and I’ve heard the end of the tale as told by these good folk here--step straight into my car while I speak to Mrs. Grimes for a minute. And then I’ll take you straight back to St. Benedick’s. This is no place for you, although the good woman no doubt thought she was obeying orders. It appears”--Dr. Fergus turned as he spoke--“that we’ve got your Cup back safely, or, at least, shall have it very shortly, thanks to poor Paul.” His tone changed, and he broke off into a long list of directions as he addressed the van-woman; while Betty, with her heart beating wildly with excitement, possessed her soul in patience until he should be free to appear. It was almost half an hour later, while driving her back to the school, that Dr. Fergus explained further. “In Witch’s Wood; the poor lad’s hidden it there--in the cottage. It seems that he found out the fact (which no one else among the village people appears to have found out, by the way) that there aren’t such things as ghosts! And he’s evidently adopted the so-called ‘haunted cottage’ there, and has used it as a kind of refuge. He’s got a bad granny, poor boy, who doesn’t do her best by him, and he’s taken to camping there. Plays his pipe, too, there; he’s a bit of a musician, poor lad, as these naturals often are. Spoke of the fairies--well, poor lad, poor lad, he’s got paid out with a bad attack of rheumatic fever for any trespassing he’s done. Oh yes, the Cup’s there, evidently as safe as can be, in the little house. He says he was guarding it for you, Miss Betty; and for you, by the way, he seems to have a genuine devotion. He told me that you wanted it kept safe till Midsummer Day!” Betty felt a lump in her throat. “He--he’s muddled up what I said! But I _did_ say it,” she whispered; “and it’s kind of him to want to help. I did very little for him, you know. Only----”