I made up my mind that the next time I saw the phantasm I would tell
him.
The next evening and the next its chair was empty, and I judged that it
was keeping away, hurt by what it had heard the last time.
But the third evening we were hardly seated before I saw it.
It was sitting up, alert and observant, not staring at Donald as it
used, but looking round the room, as if searching for something that it
missed.
“Donald,” I said, “if I told you that Cicely is in the room now, I
suppose you wouldn’t believe me?”
“Is it likely?”
“No. All the same, I see her as plainly as I see you.”
The phantasm rose and moved to his side.
“She’s standing close beside you.”
And now it moved and went to the writing-table. I turned and followed
its movements. It slid its open hands over the table, touching
everything, unmistakably feeling for something it believed to be there.
I went on. “She’s at the writing-table now. She’s looking for
something.”
It stood back, baffled and distressed. Then suddenly it began opening
and shutting the drawers, without a sound, searching each one in turn.