Silence held us all for a while after I had finished. I had a discouraged sense of inadequacy. After all, they had received but a meagre outline. The color and body of the events escaped speech. How could they feel what I had felt? How could they conceive the charm of Desire Michell, the white magic of her voice in the dark, the force of her personality that could impress her image "sight unseen" beyond all time to erase? How convey to a listener that, understanding her so little, I yet knew her so well? "I have told you all this because I need your help," I said presently. "Will you give it to me?" "Go away!" Phillida burst forth. She beat her palms together in her earnestness. "Cousin Roger, take your car and go away--far off! Go where--nothing--can reach you. You must not spend another single night here. Ethan will go with you. I will, too, if you want us. You must not be left alone until you are quite safe; perhaps in New York?" "And, Desire Michell?" "She is in no danger, I suppose. She is not my cousin, anyhow. And even she told you to go away." "You believe my story, then? You do not think me suffering from delusions?" "Ethan saw the girl, too. If he had not come here in time to save you, I believe you would have died in that terrible stupor. Besides, I have seen for weeks that something was changing you." "What does Vere say?" I questioned, studying the absorbed gravity of his expression. I wondered what I myself would have said if anyone had brought me such a story. He passed his arm around Phillida and drew her to him with a quieting, protective movement. His regard met mine with more significance than he chose to voice. "I'm satisfied to take the thing as you tell it, Mr. Locke," he answered. "Phil is right, it seems to me, about you not staying here. I don't think the young lady ought to stay, either." "She refuses to leave, Vere. What can I offer her that I have not offered? How can I find her? You have heard how I searched the countryside for a hint of such a girl's presence. No one has ever seen her; or else someone lies very cleverly." In the pause, Phillida hesitatingly ventured an idea: "Perhaps she is not--real. If the monster is a ghost thing, may not she be one, too? If we are to believe in such things at all----? She almost seems to intend that you shall believe her the ghost of the witch girl in that old book."