Crispin got up. They were now all standing in a little group close together. Crispin gathered his dressing-gown around him. "The time is nearly up," he said. "I am going to leave you alone together for a little last talk. You'll never see one another again after this, so you had best make the most of it. You see that I am not really unkind." "It is hopeless." Harkness turned round to the window. "God help us all." "Yes, it is hopeless," Crispin said gently. "At last my time has come. Do you know how long I have waited for it? Do you know what you represent to me? You have done me wrong, the two of you, broken my hospitality, betrayed my bread and salt, invaded my home. I have justice if I punish you for that. But you stand also for all the others, for all who have insulted me and laughed at me and mocked at me. I have power at last. I shall prick you and you shall bleed. I shall spit on you and you shall bow your heads, and then when you are at my feet stung with a thousand wounds I will raise you and care for you and love you, and you shall share my power----" He jumped suddenly from his gilt chair and stuttered, waving his hands as though he were commanding an army, towards the macaw who was asleep with his head under his crimson wing. "I shall be king in my own right, king of men, emperor of mankind, then one with the gods, and at the last I will shower my gifts. . . ." He broke off, looking up at a red lacquer clock that stood on a little round gilt table. "Time--time--time nearly up!" He swung round upon the three of them. Dunbar burst out: "Don't flatter yourself that you'll get away to-morrow. When we're missed----" "You won't be missed," Crispin answered with a sigh, as though he deeply regretted the fact. "The hotel will receive a note in the morning saying that Mr. Harkness has gone for a coast walk, will return in a week, and will the hotel kindly keep his things until his return? Of course the hotel most kindly will. For Mr. Dunbar--well, I believe there is only an aunt in Gloucester, is there not? It will be, I imagine, a month at least before she makes any inquiry. Possibly a year. Possibly never. Who knows? Aunts are often extraordinarily careless about their nephew's safety. And in a week. Where can one not be in a week in these modern days? Very far indeed. Then there is the sea. Anything dropped from the garden over the cliff so completely vanishes, and their faces are so often--well, spoilt beyond recognition. . . ." "If you do this," Hesther cried, "I will----" "I regret to say," interrupted Crispin, "that after eight this morning you will not see your father-in-law of whom you are so fond for six months at least. Ah, that is good news for you, I am sure. That is not to say you will never see him again. Dear me, no. But not immediately. Not immediately!" Harkness caught Hesther's hand. He saw that she was about to make some desperate movement. "Wait," he said; "wait. We can do nothing now."