A dog barked in the hollow and came nearer. She heard George silence him, and she knew that man and dog were approaching through the wood. Then her fears vanished and she strolled a few paces from the trees and stood, an easy mark for George when he appeared. "Was it you who called?" he asked her from a little distance. "Me?" Now he was close to her, and she saw his guarded eyes soften unwillingly. "Somebody called. Didn't you hear the dog barking? Somebody called 'George!'" "Perhaps," she ventured in the falsely innocent manner which both recognized as foolish and unworthy and in which both took a different delight, "perhaps it was--thought-reading!" "With the dog?" he sneered. "You and the dog," she said, joining them deliberately. "It's getting so dark that I can hardly see your cross face. That's a good thing, because I want to say thank you for driving Uncle Alfred and Notya to the station." "That's all right," he said, and added with a sullen curiosity, "Is he the one who's going to adopt you?" "Yes." "He hasn't done it yet?" "I'm not sure that I want to go. George, shall I tell you something? Something charming, a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night--I did call you!" "Well," he said after a pause, "I knew that." "You weren't certain. Tell the truth! Were you certain?" "No, I was not," he said with the sulky honesty which should have moved her. "And had you been thinking of me?" He would not answer that. "I shan't be hurt," she said, swaying from foot to foot, "because I know!" Against the invading blackness her face and teeth gleamed clearly. "You're like a black cat!" he burst out, in forgetfulness of himself. "A witch's cat!" "A witch." "Do you think witches are ever afraid? Only when they see the cross, isn't it? But I was, George, when I called out." "What of?" "I--don't know. The quietness and the dark." He gave a short laugh which tried to conceal his pleasure in her weakness. "Aren't you ever?" "Can't remember it." "Not of anything?" "No." "How--stupid of you." "Stupid?" "Yes, when the world's full of things you don't understand." "But nothing happens." That was her own complaint, but from him the words came in the security of content. "But tonight--" she began, shivered lightly and raised her hand. "What's that?" He lifted his head; the dog, sitting at his feet, had cocked his ears. "Nothing." "I heard something." Hardly heeded, he put his strong fingers on her wrist and grasped it. His voice was rich and soft. "What's the matter with you tonight?" Unmistakably now, a sound came from the hollow; not, this time, the raging of old Halkett, but a woman's cry for help, clear and insistent.