“Well, who was you expecting to see?”
Lindsay, alert now as a wire spring, turned on her, not his eyes alone, nor his head; but his whole body. Mrs. Spash was looking straight at him. Their glances met midway. The old eyes pierced the young eyes with an intent scrutiny. The young eyes stabbed the old eyes with an intense interrogation. Lindsay did not answer her question directly. Instead he laughed.
“I guess I don’t have to answer you,” he declared. “I had seen her often then.... I had seen the others too.... I don’t know why you should have frightened me when they didn’t.... I think it was that I wasn’t expecting anything human.... I’ve seen them since.... They never frighten me.”
Mrs. Spash’s reply was simple enough. “I see them all the time.” She added, with a delicate lilt of triumph, “I’ve seen them for years—”
Lindsay continued to look at her—and now his gaze was somber; even a little despairing. “What do they want? What does she want?”
Mrs. Spash’s reply came instantly, although there were pauses in her words. “I don’t know. I’ve tried.... I can’t make out.” She accompanied these simple statements with a reinforcing decisive nod of her little head.
“I can’t guess either—I can’t conjecture— There’s something she wants me to do. She can’t tell me. And they’re trying to help her tell me. All except the little girl—”
“Do you see the little girl?” Mrs. Spash demanded. “Well, I declare! That’s very queer, I must say. I never see Cherry.”
“I wish I saw her oftener,” Lindsay laughed ruefully. “She doesn’t ask anything of me. She’s just herself. But the others—Gale—Monroe— My God! It’s killing me!” He laughed again, and this time with a real amusement.