I thought, “How he must have hurt her!” It was the old thing over again: I trying to break him down, to make him show her; he beating us both off, punishing us both. You see, I knew now what she had come back for: she had come back to find out whether he loved her. With a longing unquenched by death, she had come back for certainty. And now, as always, my clumsy interference had only made him more hard, more obstinate. I thought, “If only he could see her! But as long as he beats her off he never will.” Still, if I could once get him to believe that she was there— I made up my mind that the next time I saw the phantasm I would tell him. The next evening and the next its chair was empty, and I judged that it was keeping away, hurt by what it had heard the last time. But the third evening we were hardly seated before I saw it. It was sitting up, alert and observant, not staring at Donald as it used, but looking round the room, as if searching for something that it missed. “Donald,” I said, “if I told you that Cicely is in the room now, I suppose you wouldn’t believe me?” “Is it likely?” “No. All the same, I see her as plainly as I see you.” The phantasm rose and moved to his side. “She’s standing close beside you.” And now it moved and went to the writing-table. I turned and followed its movements. It slid its open hands over the table, touching everything, unmistakably feeling for something it believed to be there. I went on. “She’s at the writing-table now. She’s looking for something.” It stood back, baffled and distressed. Then suddenly it began opening and shutting the drawers, without a sound, searching each one in turn. I said, “Oh, she’s trying the drawers now!” Donald stood up. He was not looking at the place where it was. He was looking hard at me, in anxiety and a sort of fright. I supposed that was why he remained unaware of the opening and shutting of the drawers. It continued its desperate searching. The bottom drawer stuck fast. I saw it pull and shake it, and stand back again, baffled. “It’s locked,” I said. “What’s locked?” “That bottom drawer.” “Nonsense! It’s nothing of the kind.” “It is, I tell you. Give me the key. Oh, Donald, give it me!” He shrugged his shoulders; but all the same he felt in his pockets for the key, which he gave me with a little teasing gesture, as if he humoured a child. I unlocked the drawer, pulled it out to its full length, and there, thrust away at the back, out of sight, I found the Token. I had not seen it since the day of Cicely’s death. “Who put it there?” I asked. “I did.” “Well, that’s what she was looking for,” I said. I held out the Token to him on the palm of my hand, as if it were the proof that I had seen her. “Helen,” he said gravely, “I think you must be ill.” “You think so? I’m not so ill that I don’t know what you put it away for,” I said. “It was because she thought you cared for it more than you did for her.”