"Well, well, never mind; perhaps," the doctor said, half to himself, "perhaps it is just as well you don't. Sleep, child; rest. You are at peace and need fear no harm. Do you believe in your heavenly Father and His abiding love? Do you say your prayers?"

"Yes, sir. Always…" Marianne felt herself drifting off.

"Then you know he will watch over you.

Say with me: 'Our Father which art in Heaven…"'

The doctor sat with her for some time after her voice had died away. When he left she was sleeping peacefully, with a contented smile on her face.

Next morning she felt perfectly wretched. Squire Ransom could have told her what ailed her: the aftereffects of a combination of wine, brandy, and laudanum, which would have affected even a practiced toper. Marianne did not know why she felt so terrible, but she forced herself to dress and go down to breakfast. After a few cups of strong tea and a piece of dry toast she began to feel that she might live through the day. But she was still tired and queasy when she crept out to the garden and took her seat under the rose arbor. She had slept late, the morning mist had been burned away by the sun and it was a fine, brisk day.

Marianne had brought her needlework with her, in the pretty embroidered bag she had made under Mrs. Jay's supervision. But the bag concealed a less innocent object than her Berlin work. She had brought it to this distant spot, braving the chilly air, so that she could read without fear of discovery. There was no way of approaching her without crossing a stretch of gravel, and she hoped the sound would alert her in time for her to hide the volume.

Her sense of guilt and shame about participating in the seances had not been entirely dispelled, but she appreciated the doctor's attempt to restore not only her body but her distracted mind. Most reassuring of all was her memory of praying with him. Surely no one possessed by a devil could repeat the Lord's Prayer. Once she had had a nursery maid who had told her horrible stories about ghosts and witches. The girl had been dismissed when her exercise in sadism had been discovered, but Marianne had never forgotten the gruesome tales. One of the worst had concerned a demon who had taken possession of a poor farmer's body and had occupied it without suspicion until a clergyman had spotted the intruder and forced him to betray himself by repeating the Lord's Prayer. The demon had said it backwards.

Folktales, repeated by an ignorant, superstitious woman? Oh, certainly; but in the past weeks Marianne had seen things she would once have dismissed as fiction. Perhaps the vicar's books would help to explain them. She opened the one she had brought with her and began to read.

"Can it be, that this is the beginning of Satan's last struggle, that on the imposition of hands the table is endued with power from the Devil? I merely ask, can it be?"

But the author obviously thought he knew the answer. Marianne read on, puckering her forehead over some of the more ponderously illogical sentences. So absorbed was she that, after all, she failed to hear the crunch of gravel. A shadow fell across the page; she looked up, with a startled scream, to see Carlton looming over her.

She made a belated attempt to hide the book. Carlton's eyebrows lifted and he twitched the volume neatly out of her hands.

"Good heavens," he said disgustedly, after a glance at the title, "where did you get this rubbish? No, let me guess. Who else but St. John?"

"How can you call it rubbish? You said yourself you do not believe that the spirits of the blessed dead return -"

"I don't believe anything returns," Carlton replied irritably. "But this is even worse than the Duchess's theories."

He turned over a few pages, scanned the print, and burst into a shout of laughter.

"Here we have the interrogator asking the spirit where Satan's headquarters are. 'Are they in England?' A slight movement of the table. 'Are they in France?' A violent movement. 'Are they at Rome?' The table seemed literally frantic… Really, Miss Ransom, how can you read such bigoted trash with a straight face?"

Marianne ought to have been offended. Instead his laughter made her feel better.

"Do you really think it is trash?"

"Of course. This is the worst possible thing for you, huddling here in the cold straining your eyes and your poor little conscience. Come for a ride. The exercise will do you good. At least it does me good, after a night of overindulgence."

"How can you say such a thing?" Marianne protested. But she took the hand he extended and allowed him to raise her to her feet.

"You had too much brandy for someone who is not accustomed to spirits," was the reply. "I suppose Gruffstone concluded that it was better for you to be tipsy than hysterical. However, the morning after is not pleasant. Hurry now; I will meet you downstairs in ten minutes."

It took Marianne longer than ten minutes, for she had to go to the kitchen to beg some carrots. Stella received the offering graciously.

"What a glorious day," Marianne exclaimed, removing her hat and lifting her face to the sun. "Thank you, Mr. Carlton. This is just what I needed."

"I have had considerable experience in these matters," Carlton replied.

They rode on in comfortable silence, side by side. Then Marianne asked, "Have you had any word about Maggie?"

"Hardly; I only dispatched the new information yesterday. I also requested my people to find out what Bagshot is doing just now."

"I am sure your concern on that point is unnecessary," Marianne said, with more confidence than she really felt.

"No doubt. At this moment I am much more concerned about another matter. Miss Ransom, have you considered what you are doing? How long do you plan to continue this masquerade?"

"You still think me a cheat, then." Marianne felt more weariness than anger.

"I don't know what you are! Gruffstone has another theory. I am forced to admit there may be some truth in it."

"Theory? Oh, yes. He said something to me last night, but I did not understand his meaning – something about hysteria. He was very kind."

"He is too inclined to take people at face value," Carlton replied cynically. "However, I respect his medical knowledge, and he tells me that there has been considerable research into this phenomenon of hysteria. Some fellow at the Salpetriere in Paris – Chariot?… Charcot, that was the name – at any rate, he and some others have learned that illnesses of certain patients are purely mental in origin, and can be cured by suggestion. These patients believe themselves to be ill, so they become ill. I suppose I am explaining it badly, for he bombarded me with medical terms I didn't understand; but the gist of it is simple enough. People believe what they want to believe, and some people are more susceptible to self-delusion than others."

"But there is nothing scientific about that! In any case," Marianne added haughtily, "I am not deluding myself."

"My dear girl, we all do, to varying degrees. The doctor believes that all men – and women – are basically good; the Duchess believes the spirits of the dead talk to her -"

"And what makes you so sure they are wrong?"

"That is my form of self-delusion," the lawyer said wryly. "That I know better than they. See here, Miss Ransom, I am not such a pompous fool as I sound. Most of what I have seen and heard about spiritualism strikes me as absurd, but I am not so dogmatic as to insist there may not be a germ of truth in it. Would you be willing to let me subject you to some kind of physical restraint the next time Her Grace insists on a performance?"

"What did you have in mind?" Marianne asked doubtfully.

"Nothing more than most mediums now accept. That you be bound to a chair – I promise I will only use the softest of cloths – which is bolted to the floor."