“You would stay here, if you were convinced that all that was not only possible — but present?”
“I would,” said the girl, in a dazed voice.
“Bring the pen and ink, Larkin,” ordered Zayata.
“But I can’t write anything,” protested Margaret. “Not unless I know — know that all these awful things could really be. Tell me — tell me—”
“The truth?”
“Yes. The truth!”
HENRI ZAYATA reached forward and pressed the girl’s hands between his own. There was something in his touch that reassured Margaret, even though she dreaded what he might have to say. The end of her little world was in sight, although her understanding was vague. Here was sanctuary, while at her uncle’s home lurked what strange perils?
“The truth should never hurt,” Zayata was saying soothingly. “Never — when it is told by a real friend.”
Margaret nodded and bit her lips.
“My uncle—” she began, but went no further. Words failed her.