At three o'clock they played the last round. And it was only then--when the last card had been thrown on the table, and he had risen stiff from long sitting, the winner of something like twenty pounds--that he realised how completely he had been dominated by this resurrected influence; dominated to the exclusion of personal prejudice and even personal comfort. So strong was this impression of past influences that he was roused to no surprise when, glancing at his companion, he saw him temporarily rejuvenated--his expression alert, his whole face vivified by the night's excitement. Again a touch of the old sympathy arose within him. The reckless, cynical man before him was momentarily effaced; the bright personality of long ago seemed to fill the room. "Good-night, Denis!" he said gently, holding out his hand. Asshlin caught it enthusiastically. "Good-night, James!--good-night! And once more a thousand welcomes and a thousand thanks. You have been a drop of water in the desert to a parching man. Good-night, and pleasant dreams to you! I'll reckon up my losses in the morning and write you a cheque. Good-night!" Milbanke responded to the pressure of his fingers. "Don't trouble about the money," he said. "Any time will do--any time. But you're turning in yourself? We'll be upstairs together?" But Asshlin shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "Not after this. I'll take a turn across the fields and have a look at the night on the water. I feel too much awake to be smothered by sheets and blankets. It isn't often we feel life here--and the sensation is glorious." He drew up his tall, powerful figure and stretched out his arms. Then almost at once he let them fall to his sides. "But what moonshine this is to you, you prosaic Saxon!" he exclaimed. "Let me light you to bed." He laughed quickly; and, picking up one of the massive candlesticks, moved towards the door. For an instant Milbanke lingered in the dining-room, grown dimmer with the departing lights; then, hearing his name in his host's voice, he hurried after him into the hall. Asshlin was standing at the foot of the stairs, the glowing candles held aloft. Above him, the high ceiling loomed shadowy and indistinct; behind him, the dark wainscoted wall threw his figure into bold relief. It would have demanded but a slight stretch of fancy to picture him as his satin-coated great-grandfather grown to a dissipated maturity, as he stood there, the master spirit in this house of fallen greatness. As Milbanke reached his side, he laughed once more, precisely as Anthony Asshlin might have laughed, standing at the foot of the same staircase nearly a hundred years ago. The taint of heredity seemed to wrap him round--to gleam in his unnaturally bright eyes, to reverberate in his voice.