Milly went on. "And now he won't come out of the house. He says he's being hunted. He's afraid of being seen, being found. He's in there--in that room. He made me lock him in." They stared at each other and at the horror that their faces took and gave back each to each. "Oh, Aggy----" Milly cried it out in her anguish. "You _will_ help him?" "I can't." Agatha heard her voice go dry in her throat. "You _can't_?" Agatha shook her head. "You mean you haven't, then?" "I haven't. I couldn't." "But you told me--you told me you were giving yourself up to it. You said that was why you couldn't see us." "It _was_ why. Do sit down, Milly." They sat down, still staring at each other. Agatha faced the window, so that the light ravaged her. Milly went on. "That was why I left you alone. I thought you were going on. You said you wouldn't let him go; you promised me you'd keep on ..." "I did keep on, till ..." But Milly had only paused to hold down a sob. Her voice broke out again, clear, harsh, accusing. "What were you doing all that time?" "Of course," said Agatha, "you're bound to think I let you down." "What am I to think?" "Milly--I asked you not to think it was me." "Of course I knew it was the Power, not you. But you had hold of it. You did something. Something that other people can't do. You did it for one night, and that night he was well. You kept on for six weeks and he was well all that time. You leave off for three days--I know when you left off--and he's ill again. And then you tell me that it isn't you. It _is_ you; and if it's you you can't give him up. You can't stand by, Aggy, and refuse to help him. You know what it was. How can you bear to let him suffer? How can you?" "I can because I must." "And why must you?" Milly raised her head more in defiance than in supplication. "Because--I told you that I might give out. Well--I have given out." "You told me that the Power can't give out--that you've only got to hold on to it--that it's no effort. I'm only asking you, Aggy, to hold on." "You don't know what you're asking." "I'm asking you only to do what you have done, to give five minutes in the day to him. You said it was enough. Only five minutes. It isn't much to ask." Agatha sighed. "What difference could it make to you--five minutes?" "You don't understand," said Agatha. "I do. I don't ask you to see him, or to bother with him; only to go on as you were doing." "You don't understand. It isn't possible to explain it. I can't go on." "I see. You're tired, Aggy. Well--not now, not to-day. But later, when you're rested, won't you?" "Oh, Milly, dear Milly, if I could ..." "You can. You will. I know you will ..." "No. You must understand it. Never again. Never again." "Never?" "Never." There was a long silence. At last Milly's voice crept through, strained and thin, feebly argumentative, the voice of a thing defeated and yet unconvinced.