"You are fairly caught, Henry. Sit down, if you please."

Henry hesitated long enough to make her wonder what on earth she would do if he fell to the floor frothing and writhing. Then, with a sullen swagger, he threw himself into a chair, crossed one leg over the other, and stared at her defiantly.

"You weren't frightened at all," he said. "How did you know it was me?"

"It was I," Marianne corrected. "I wasn't frightened, but I might have been; it was a cruel, malicious thing to do. Why did you do it?"

"I thought it would be fun."

"And how did you evade M. Victor? He should not allow -"

"He has gone out. I suppose he is down at the Devenbrook Arms, getting drunk, as usual."

"Getting…" Marianne decided not to pursue this line of investigation. Curiosity got the better of her, and she inquired rather ingenuously, "How did you do that?"

"Gloves, coated with phosphorus," Henry answered readily. He pulled these objects from his pocket and dangled them from his hand. In the gloom they had a perceptible glow; but, like all enlightened viewers of a conjurer, Marianne wondered how she could ever have been deceived by such a simple trick.

"I got the idea from A Young Person's Guide to Science," Henry went on. "There are lots of other good things in that book. Would you like to see it?"

"Yes, I would." Marianne was decidedly interested; but seeing that Henry was now quite at ease, and indeed rather proud of his ingenuity, she thought she had better not encourage him any more. Returning to her lecturing tone, she asked reproachfully,

"What would your dear mama say if she knew you had done this?"

A singularly unpleasant, unchildlike smile came over Henry's face. "She would like it. She hates you."

"Hates me? You must be mistaken. Why should she hate me?"

"You are very pretty," Henry said. "And the vicar admires you."

Marianne was silenced momentarily. Consternation, lingering anger, pleasure at the compliment, and hurt – for she had really hoped that the unhappy Lady Violet would be her friend – gave way to an overwhelming pity.

"I am sorry if she doesn't like me," she said gently. "I like her very much, and would like to be of service to her. And to you, Henry. I know it is dull for you here. I am bored too, sometimes; perhaps we could do things together. I am very good at playing ball, and marbles."

"Girls can't play ball," Henry said.

"I can. Before I had to become a proper young lady I played with Billy Turnbull and Jack Daws, at home. Why don't we make a pact? I won't tell anyone about this if you will try to be my friend."

Henry was wise enough to see that this offer was to his advantage, since it committed him to nothing specific.

"All right," he said ungraciously. "Can I go now?"

"Yes. But if you ever use that passageway again I will not hold my tongue."

Henry departed as he had come, without further comment; but the last glance he gave Marianne held an inquiring, almost wistful quality that gave her hope that some good had been done. She had deliberately refrained from questioning the boy about any other tricks he might have played. If she could gain his confidence he might confide in her of his own free will.

To Marianne's surprise Carlton accompanied her to church next morning. He was waiting for her in the hall when she came down and handed her into the carriage with a solemn air perfectly suited to a Sunday morning. It was still raining.

"So Lady Violet changed her mind," Marianne said.

"No; she remained of the same mind. She never intended to go."

"I am sorry."

"You have been reading too many tracts," Carlton said. "You earnest Christians seem to feel that a single noble gesture from you should bring about instant conversion, and you become highly indignant when there is no such result. A long-seated timidity like that of the Lady Violet is not to be overcome in a day; if you really wanted to befriend her you would persist and not be discouraged by lack of immediate success."

"And what makes you suppose I will not persist? You do have a poor opinion of me!"

"Now you are becoming angry," Carlton said gravely. "Tut, tut, Miss Ransom. Try to adopt an attitude more becoming to the day and the occasion."

So Marianne had to swallow her wrath. "Why is not Dr. Gruffstone with us?" she asked. "I hope the Duchess is not worse."

"No, she does quite well. Gruffstone is a rational deist, or some such thing; he does not approve of organized religion, except for the lower classes."

Marianne had no comment to make on this absurd statement. With Carlton she could never be sure whether he was reporting a fact or embroidering it in his own peculiar way.

Going down the aisle of the church on Carlton's arm was almost as much of an ordeal as going alone; her self-possession was not improved when he said out of the corner of his mouth, "Practice, Miss Ransom, for the day of your nuptials. Aren't you glad the groom will be someone else?"

Nor was the sermon soothing. To be sure, the vicar was as handsome as ever, and he seemed to smile directly at her; but the text was the famous exhortation that had led to the hideous deaths of thousands of innocents: "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Naturally St. John did not advocate such a fate for those who dabbled in forbidden arts, but by the time he had finished painting a vivid picture of the flames singeing the screaming sinners, Marianne was almost inclined to think that being burned alive would be preferable. At least it had an end, whereas according to St. John the fires of Hell never went out.

The congregation found this sermon much more to its taste than the last one had been. Several of them were beginning to sway and groan in chorus by the time St. John finished with a thundering condemnation.

Carlton, who had sat with folded arms and impassive face throughout, did not comment until they had squelched through the mud and taken their places in the carriage.

"Ah, the comforts of religion. It is as well Her Grace was not well enough to attend. I fully expected some of the elderly faithful to suffer heart attacks on the spot."

"He would not have delivered that sermon if the Duchess had been there," Marianne said.

"No doubt you are right. He has enough self-interest to avoid such an error."

"Compassion, you mean."

"No, that is not what I mean. But you and I will never agree on that subject; enough of it. Have you given any thought as to what you will do a few days from now, when the Duchess calls on you to summon up the spirit of David Holmes?"

The seemingly abrupt change of subject left Marianne momentarily at a loss for words. It was not, in fact, a non sequitur; the fiery sermon had revived her distaste for spiritualism and reminded her of something she had tried not to think about.

"She may not ask it of me."

"Don't cherish that illusion. She lives for that moment. Indeed," Carlton added, his expression thoughtful, "I think she lives only for that moment. If she believes that Holmes waits for her on the other side…"

"Are you by any chance suggesting that I invent a message to that effect?"

"Little Miss Innocent is not quite so naive as she appears," Carlton jeered. "I was not about to suggest that, no; but don't be too surprised if the doctor comes to you with some such request."

"He would never do such a thing!"

"Don't be too sure. However, I admit that you are in a devilish difficult position. If there is no contact at all, the disappointment might literally break her heart. If Holmes greets her with the usual vague meandering about flowers and sunshine and peace on the other side, she may decide to join him forthwith. In fact, if you are considering a literary invention along those lines, I suggest you say that, while Holmes is happy to see her, he does not expect to meet her in heaven for many years to come."