“Because secrecy is bad. And he was beginning to wonder. He wanted to go back to business; and he wouldn’t, because he thought it was the place that did it.” “I see,” said Agatha. “And what does he think it is now?” “He thinks it’s _you_, dear.” “But I told you—I told you—that was what you were not to think.” “My dear, it’s an immense concession that he should think it’s you.” “A concession to what?” “Well, I suppose, to the supernatural.” “Milly, you shouldn’t have told him. You don’t know what harm you might have done. I’m not sure even now that you haven’t done it.” “Oh, have I?” said Milly triumphantly. “You’ve only got to look at him.” “When did you tell him, then?” “I told him—let me see—it was a week ago last Friday.” Agatha was silent. She wondered. It had been after Friday a week ago that he had prevailed so terribly. “Agatha,” said Milly solemnly, “when we go away you won’t lose sight of him? You won’t let go of him?” “You needn’t be afraid. I doubt now if he will let go of me.” “How do you mean—_now_?” Milly flushed slightly as a flower might flush. “Now that you’ve told him, now that he thinks it’s me. “Perhaps,” said Milly, “that was why I told him. I don’t want him to let go.” VII It was the sixth week, and still Rodney did not write; and Agatha was more and more afraid. By this time she had definitely connected her fear with Harding Powell’s dominion and persistence. She was certain now that what she could only call his importunity had proved somehow disastrous to Rodney Lanyon. And with it all, unacknowledged, beaten back, her desire to see Rodney ran to and fro in the burrows underground. He did not write, but on the Friday of that week, the sixth week, he came. She saw him coming up the garden path, and she shrank back into her room but the light searched her and found her, and he saw her there. He never knocked; he came straight and swiftly to her through the open doors. He shut the door of the room behind him and held her by her arms with both his hands. “Rodney,” she said, “did you mean to come, or did I make you?” “I meant to come. You couldn’t make me.” “Couldn’t I? Oh, _say_ I couldn’t.” “You could,” he said, “but you didn’t. And what does it matter so long as I’m here?” “Let me look at you.” She held him at arm’s length and turned him to the light. It showed his face white, worn as it used to be, all the little lines of worry back again, and two new ones that drew down the corners of his mouth. “You’ve been ill,” she said. “You _are_ ill.” “No. I’m all right. What’s the matter with _you?_” “With me? Nothing. Do I look as if anything was wrong?” “You look as if you’d been frightened.” He paused, considering it. “This place isn’t good for you. You oughtn’t to be here like this, all by yourself.” “Oh! Rodney, it’s the dearest place. I love every inch of it. Besides, I’m not altogether by myself.”