“Don't be frightened,” said Charlotte softly, “we are your friends. In a way we have been expecting you, and we shall see to it that no harm comes to you.
“Which would you prefer—to ask questions, or to answer them?”
“I”—the girl hesitated—“I—hardly—know. Perhaps—you had—better—ask something first.”
“Good. Do you remember where you came from? Can you recall the events just prior to your arrival here?”
The girl looked helplessly from the one to the other of us. She seemed to be searching for some clue. Finally she shook her head in a hopeless, despairing fashion.
“I can't remember,” speaking with a shade less difficulty. “The last thing—I recall is—seeing—you three—staring—at me.”
This was a poser. To think, a person who, before our very eyes, had materialised out of the Blind Spot, was unable to tell us anything about it!
Still this lack of memory might be only a temporary condition, brought on by the special conditions under which she had emerged; an after-effect, as it were, of the semi-electrical phenomena. And it turned out that I was right.
“Then,” suggested Charlotte, “suppose you ask us something.”
The girl's eyes stopped roving and rested definitely, steadily, upon my own. And she spoke; still a little hesitantly: