'We must think,' she echoed. And they did think—thought, with intensity, the rest of that evening together, and thought, independently—Withermore at least could answer for himself—during many days that followed. He intermitted for a little his visits and his work, trying, in meditation, to catch himself in the act of some mistake that might have accounted for their disturbance. Had he taken, on some important point—or looked as if he might take—some wrong line or wrong view? had he somewhere benightedly falsified or inadequately insisted? He went back at last with the idea of having guessed two or three questions he might have been on the way to muddle; after which he had, above stairs, another period of agitation, presently followed by another interview, below, with Mrs. Doyne, who was still troubled and flushed.
'He's there?'
'He's there.'
'I knew it!' she returned in an odd gloom of triumph. Then as to make it clear: 'He has not been again with me.'
'Nor with me again to help,' said Withermore.
She considered. 'Not to help?'
'I can't make it out—I'm at sea. Do what I will, I feel I'm wrong.'
She covered him a moment with her pompous pain. 'How do you feel it?'
'Why, by things that happen. The strangest things. I can't describe them—and you wouldn't believe them.'
'Oh yes, I would!' Mrs. Doyne murmured.
'Well, he intervenes.' Withermore tried to explain. 'However I turn, I find him.'
She earnestly followed. '"Find" him?'
'I meet him. He seems to rise there before me.'
Mrs. Doyne, staring, waited a little. 'Do you mean you see him?'
'I feel as if at any moment I may. I'm baffled. I'm checked.' Then he added: 'I'm afraid.'
