For a space the fog that had thwarted her memory rolled back and blotted out understanding in a maddeningly, impenetrable vapour of obscurity; and then, through the mist, dawned a slow nimbus of realisation. Raegenssen's voice! Never in her life, she would have sworn, had she spoken to a man named Raegenssen, and yet the remembered timbre of his incoherent mutter "_Sylvia ... Sylvia ..._" struck a responsive chord which vibrated through her consciousness with ever-increasing assurance. Conviction came against her will, fighting for expression against all the massed forces of logic and reasoning. It was ridiculous, smacking of hallucination, incredible--and yet, pluck that awakened chord ever so distrustfully, it rang true every time. Millimetre by millimetre, battling doggedly against the overwhelming odds, common sense gave ground before the onslaught of primeval instinct. She was sound of mind and body, had never had cause to doubt the stability of her senses; therefore, insane as the idea might seem, it must be granted due audience. And so, with every breathless second, that clear, single note of belief sang in greater and greater volume. She knew she was right, knew she could rely on the combined depositions of hearing and memory ... _She knew Raegenssen's voice, and it was the voice of a man who had spoken to her recently!_ The full light of understanding blinded her, and her hands came down suddenly to grip the arms of her chair. Now that all darkness had been swept away by that last swift incandescence of knowledge, she was amazed that she had never seen and gripped that stark fact before. Perhaps it was because she had not thought to place sufficient importance on the incident, and therefore had not turned it over in her mind and inspected it from every angle. Certainly, circumstances had allied to lull her into accepting the salient, startling truth as a thing of no account. Of course, one may always find a full-grown African rhinoceros in a soap factory, but the possibility falls short of the commonly endorsed probabilities of normal life, so that anyone seeking African rhinoceros heads automatically for Africa instead of taking his chance in an expedition to Port Sunlight. In exactly the same way, her subconscious mind had so scoffed at the idea of Oscar Raegenssen being no more than the Mr. Hyde of somebody else's Dr. Jekyll, that the censor on guard between conscious and subconscious had barred out the suggestion. Nevertheless--and, now, she would have sworn to it--Raegenssen was somebody else. Or, conversely, somebody else was Raegenssen. In dress, deportment, face and figure there was only the most far-fetched possible similarity; in the ordinary way, that difference was likely to extend to voice also; all the same, there remained one dogmatic heads-I-win-tails-you-lose certainty by way of bed-rock on which to start rebuilding every theory about the Alpha Triangle.