Quick on this came the further question. If this were so might he not perhaps when the crisis came--as come he knew it would--appeal to the real Crispin and so rescue both themselves and him? He did not know. It had all gone so far. The animal with its beastly claws deep in the flesh had so tight a hold. He realised that it was in all probability the personality of Hesther herself that had urged it to such extremes. There was something in her clear-sighted simple defiance of him that had made Crispin's fear of his powerlessness--the fear that had always contributed to his most dangerous excesses--climb to its utmost height. He had decided perhaps that this was to be the real final test of his power, that this girl should submit to him utterly. Her escape had stirred his sense of failure as nothing else could do. And then their return, all the nervous excitement of that night, the constant alarm of the neighbourhoods in which they had stayed so that, as the younger Crispin had said, they had been driven "from pillar to post," all these things had filled the bowl of insanity to overflowing. _Could_ he rescue Crispin as well as themselves? Once more a tremor ran through his body. Because if he could not---- Once more he thrust the anticipation back, pulling himself up from the floor and beginning slowly, feeling the wall with his hand like a blind man, to walk round the room. His eyes now were better accustomed to the light, but he could make out but little of where he was. He supposed that he was on the second floor where were the rooms of Hesther and the younger Crispin. The place seemed empty, there was no sound from the house. He might have been in his grave. Fantastic stories came to his mind, Poe-like stories of walls and ceilings growing closer and closer, of floors opening beneath the foot into watery dungeons, of fiery eyes seen through the darkness. He repeated then aloud: "I am Charles Percy Harkness. I am thirty-five years of age. I grew up in Baker, Oregon, in the United States of America. I am in sound mind and in excellent health. I came down to Cornwall yesterday afternoon for a holiday, recommended to do so by Sir James Maradick, Bart." This gave him some little satisfaction; to himself he continued, still walking and touching the wall-paper with his hand: "I am shut up in a dark room in a strange house at four in the morning for no other reason than that I meddled in other people's affairs. And I am glad that I meddled. I am in love, and whatever comes out of this I do not regret it. I would do over again exactly what I have done except that I should hope to do it better next time."