To draw him to any purpose she had first to loosen and destroy the fleshly, sinister image of him that, for the moment of evocation, hung like a picture on the darkness. In a moment the fleshly image receded, it sank back into the darkness. His name, Harding Powell, was now the only earthly sign of him that she suffered to appear. In the third moment his name was blotted out. And then it was as if she drew him by intangible, supersensible threads; she touched, with no sense of peril, his innermost essence; the walls of flesh were down between them; she had got at him. And having got at him she held him, a bloodless spirit, a bodiless essence, in the fount of healing. She said to herself, “He will sleep now. He will sleep. He will sleep.” And as she slid into her own sleep she held and drew him with her. He would sleep; he would be all right as long as _she_ slept. Her sleep, she had discovered, did more than carry on the amazing act of communion and redemption. It clinched it. It was the seal on the bond. Early the next morning she went over to the Farm. The blinds were up; the doors and windows were flung open. Milly met her at the garden gate. She stopped her and walked a little way with her across the field. “It’s worked,” she said. “It’s worked after all, like magic.” For a moment Agatha wondered whether Milly had guessed anything; whether she divined the Secret and had brought him there for that, and had refused to acknowledge it before she knew. “What has?” she asked. “The plan. The place. He slept last night. Ten hours straight on end. I know, for I stayed awake and watched him. And this morning—oh, my dear, if you could see him! He’s all right. He’s all right.” “And you think,” said Agatha, “it’s the place?” Milly knew nothing, guessed, divined nothing. “Why, what else can it be?” she said. “What does _he_ think?” “He doesn’t think. He can’t account for it. He says himself it’s miraculous.” “Perhaps,” said Agatha, “it is.” They were silent a moment over the wonder of it. “I can’t get over it,” said Milly presently. “It’s so odd that it should make all that difference. I could understand it if it had worked that way at first. But it didn’t. Think of him yesterday. And yet—if it isn’t the place, what is it? What is it?” Agatha did not answer. She wasn’t going to tell Milly what it was. If she did, Milly wouldn’t believe her, and Milly’s unbelief might work against it. It might prove, for all she knew, an inimical, disastrous power. “Come and see for yourself.” Milly spoke as if it had been Agatha who doubted. They turned again towards the house. Powell had come out and was in the garden, leaning on the gate. They could see how right he was by the mere fact of his being there, presenting himself like that to the vivid light.