"Thank you," said Linda, quietly. "That is true."
"And now," said Glynn, "I want, in my turn, to ask you a question. I have been a little curious. I want, too, to do what I can. Therefore, I ask you, why did you send, for me? What is it that you think I can do? That other friends of yours can't?"
A slight colour came into Linda's cheeks; and for a moment she lowered her eyes. She spoke with an accent of apology.
"It is quite true that there are friends whom I see more constantly than you, Mr. Glynn, and upon whom I have, perhaps, greater claims."
"Oh, I did not mean you to think that I was reluctant to come," Glynn exclaimed, and Linda smiled, lifting her eyes to his.
"No," she said. "I remembered your kindness. It was that recollection which helped me to appeal to you," and she resumed her explanation as though he had never interrupted her.
"Nor was there any particular thing which I thought you could do. But--well, here's the truth--I have been living in terror. This house has become a house of terror. I am frightened, and I have come almost to believe----" and she looked about her with a shiver of her shoulders, sinking her voice to a whisper as she spoke--"that Jim was right--that he is here after all."
And Glynn recoiled. Just for a moment the same fancy had occurred to him.
"You don't believe that--really!" he cried.
"No--no," she answered. "Once I think calmly. But it is so difficult to think calmly and reasonably here. Oh----" and she threw up her arms suddenly, and her whole face and eyes were alight with terror--"the very air is to me heavy with fear in this house. It is Jim's quiet certainty."