"Yes. One moment." Rich turned to Vicky. His voice was slow and heavy. "Victoria Fane, go over to the sofa. Put a pillow under your head. Lie down."
With instant obedience Vicky went to the sofa. She shuddered violently as she touched it, and Rich was after her in an instant. He put his fingers lightly on her temples; the shuddering died away, and she lay down.
"Now sleep," murmured Rich, in the voice that could influence them all. "You are yourself again, Victoria Fane. But sleep. You will not awaken until I tell you to. When you wake up, you will have forgotten everything that happened here. Now sleep. Sleep.. "
Sharpless hurried to her side. And in a moment or two he breathed something like a strangled prayer.
It was like watching a blurred image come into focus, or cold clay warmed again with humanity. Something (mind? heart? soul?) seemed to flow into her, altering even the lines of the face. Vicky Fane lay where the dummy had lain, the smudged marks of the tears incongruous on her cheeks.
Her color was back, the faint tan of health, the familiar curve of the lips. Her breathing was slow and easy, and she smiled in sleep.
"Thank.. God. If anybody ever does that to her again—"
Rich looked round.
"Captain Sharpless, has Mrs. Fane any unpleasant mental association with this sofa?" "I'll swear I don't know."
"Mr. Hubert Fane, has she any unpleasant mental association with this sofa?"