As his host finally managed to rattle the door into a closed position, he made his way into the living room which was straight ahead. A wall of glass, to the left, afforded an unbroken and dramatic view of the city. The furniture was functionally modern, and to the right was a sort of alcove containing a desk, typewriter and three file cabinets. The over-all effect was very glittering, very urbane. "You've got a nice lay-out here," Fleetwood commented chattily. * * * * * Quivering visibly in the doorway, his host, however, was in no frame of mind for conversational hanky-panky about interior decoration. "You...!" he erupted. "You _are_!" "Of course," Fleetwood nodded. "I told you I was, didn't I?" "But you can't be!" "I had a hunch you were going to say that," Fleetwood said. "Oh, my word!" Grant Dermitt made his way to the nearest chair and plumped himself down into it. "My word!" he repeated. He stared at Fleetwood lengthily, plainly engaged in an inward struggle with his own senses. "But it's only a resemblance," he said finally. "That's all it _could_ be, just a fantastic coincidence." His gaze entreated Fleetwood. "Isn't it?" Fleetwood shook his head and settled himself comfortably into the chair opposite. "Shall I tell you the plot of your present story?" he drawled. "Or would the experience be too painful?" "Oh, dear!" Grant Dermitt said, making a small random gesture with his hand. "There is that, too, isn't there? No one could have known those things you told me on the telephone...." "No one but me," Fleetwood said. "And who would know them better?" "I simply don't know what to make of it," Dermitt moaned. "It's too crazy to believe, but...." He looked up at Fleetwood. "When did this happen?" Fleetwood told him of the qualms, the spells, the small awakenings which had culminated in the final, major one that evening. "I see," Dermitt said when he had finished. "In a way it begins to make sense. It checks with all the trouble you've been giving me lately."