"It was not I you felt. I implore you not to think it was."
"What can I think?"
"Think as I do; think—think——" She stopped herself. She was aware of the futility of her charge to this man who denied, who always had denied, the supernatural.
"It isn't a question of thinking," she said at last.
"Of believing, then? Are you going to tell me to believe?"
"No; it isn't believing either. It's knowing. Either you know it or you don't know, though you may come to know. But whatever you think, you mustn't think it's me."
"I rather like to. Why shouldn't I?"
She turned on him her grave white face, and he noticed a curious expression there as of incipient terror.
"Because you might do some great harm either to yourself or——"
His delicate, sceptical eyebrows questioned her.