"We've had a dozen ideas," Brant McLeod said grimly, "none of which any of us can prove. She wasn't sexually molested--that was the first thing we thought of, of course. But she was simply a little wild animal. She calmed down, after a while--or rather, she was tamed down. But she didn't speak for three years. When she began to talk again--quite suddenly--she had forgotten everything, even her own name. Complete amnesia. We tried everything--psychiatry, doctors everywhere--but nothing helped." He shrugged, wearily. "So we don't want her in an institution. She's a happy little girl who lives from day to day. She's really quite docile, except for occasional tantrums."

He sighed, then continued, "We had hopes, when she began to talk again, but they were useless. We got a companion for her--a young nurse named Margo Fields--but she died in an accident, about six months ago." A shadow passed over his face. "It was hard on Deirdre. Then we tried a--a regular nurse, but she was too harsh on the poor child. Deirdre began to regress and have tantrums all the time. Finally, we decided to try and get a psychiatric nurse--one who was young and could be a friend and companion to her, but who would know what to do if she suddenly--" he hesitated, and a spasm came over his face-- "if she became--violent. The alternative--well, I don't want her put in an institution. She'd wither up and die there," he said harshly. "I won't have it. You're our last chance, Miss Moore."

He really cares, I thought, looking at the mobile, sullen face in the shifting candlelight. He cared.

And what about my patient?

According to Martine, Deirdre was a falsely sweet psychopathic liar. According to Brant, she was a sunny, happy child who lived from day to day. And the housekeeper had called her "Poor little Miss Deirdre."

But what was the truth?

Brant McLeod rose abruptly. "You've had a long trip," he said; "you must be tired. I'll take you to Deirdre tomorrow; she's fond of me, and I'd better introduce you. Good night."

I went to my room in a daze. The castle seemed to overwhelm me suddenly, and my brocaded room seemed only a backdrop for the remorseless strangeness of the people around me. There was old Jerome McLeod, dry and embittered; Martine, with her operatic voice and her ravaged beauty and her cold bitterness toward her daughter; Ross, who came and went as if he owned the place; and finally, Brant, the enigma--by turns curt and solicitous.

I undressed, appreciating the luxury of the hot bath, the thick soft towels, and the deep rug under my bare feet. Someone had placed a bowl of luscious fruit beside my bed. I got into bed, biting into a pear that dripped sweet juice. Tomorrow I would meet Deirdre, my riddle of a patient. What had changed a "sunny, happy child" into a speechless, biting little animal?

I turned out the light. As my head hit the pillow, I realized that I had not thought of Raymond Grantham all day, that suddenly I had no desire to cry with tormented love and longing. The moon shone through the green-gold drapery and the window. I slept.

Some small sound disturbed me; abruptly, I sat up in bed. My own voice sounded strange in the darkness, as I asked, "Who's there?"

Silence. Through the dimness I made out the pale form of a slender, feminine body, dimly outlined in white drapery, moonlight sketching pale shadows around the shoulders like fair hair. I said, more sharply, "Who's there?"

Dazed, I rubbed my eyes; then, resolutely, I reached for the switch of the light. It seemed to me that I heard a little cry, but I have never been sure. Then the light snapped on; I blinked, rubbing my eyes.

The room was empty!

I got up, searched the bath and the closet, and even peered behind the hangings. Had I seen a ghost? Near the bathroom door I seemed to see the print of a small, damp foot; but it might have been my own footprint, left after my bath. Finally, telling myself practically that I had had a vivid dream, I went back to bed. But it was hours before I slept.