Of course his wornout senses were being tricked. He had known of such cases, and was now thoroughly alarmed. Like a man in delirium, he walked into the open and confronted the fascinated gaze of the girl for whom he had been searching for weeks.
"How came—you here?" he asked in a voice from which normal emotions were eliminated.
"And—you?" she echoed.
They came a step nearer, their hands outstretched in a poor, blind groping for solution and reality.
"Why—I am—I meant to tell you—some day. I am Priscilla Glenn—not Glynn—Priscilla Glenn of—Lonely Farm."
"My God!" Travers came a step nearer, his face set and grim. "Of course! I see it now—the dance! Don't you remember? The dance at the Swiss village?"
"And the—the tune that made me cry. Who—are——How did you know that tune? How did you know—the In-Place?"
Their hands touched and clung now, desperately. Together they must find their way out.
"I am—I was—the boy of the Far Hill Place. I played for you—once—to dance—right here!"
Something seemed snapping in Priscilla's brain.