Instinctively, he turned and ran back toward the room he had left. If he got back to the place where he had appeared in this world, perhaps--somehow--some force would return him to where he belonged. * * * * * The door was as he had left it, the porcelain dish still in place. He scooped up the dish in one big hand and ran on into the room, letting the door shut itself behind him. He ran on, through the large room with its many tables, into the brightly lighted room beyond. He stopped. What could he do now? He tried to remember the things that the Italian had told him to do, and he could not for the life of him remember them. His memory still had gaps in it--gaps he did not know were there because he had not yet probed for them. He closed his eyes in concentration, trying to bring back a memory that would not come. He did not hear the intruder until the man's voice echoed in the room. Broom's eyes opened, and instantly every muscle and nerve in his hard-trained body tensed for action. There was a man standing in the doorway of the office. He was not a particularly impressive man, in spite of the queer cut of his clothes. He was not as tall as Broom, and he looked soft and overfed. His paunch protruded roundly from the open front of the short coat, and there was a fleshiness about his face that betrayed too much good living. And he looked even more frightened than Broom had been a few minutes before. He was saying something in a language that Broom did not understand, and the tenseness in his voice betrayed his fear. Broom relaxed. He had nothing to fear from this little man. "I won't hurt you," Broom said. "I had no intention of intruding on your property, but all I ask is help." The little man was blinking and backing away, as though he were going to turn and bolt at any moment. Broom laughed. "You have nothing to fear from me, little man. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Richard Broom, known as--" He stopped, and his eyes widened. Total memory flooded over him as he realized fully who he was and where he belonged. And the fear hit him again in a raging flood, sweeping over his mind and blotting it out. Again, the darkness came. * * * * * This time, the blackness faded quickly. There was a face, a worried face, looking at him through an aperture in the stone wall. The surroundings were so familiar, that the bits of memory which had been scattered again during the passage through centuries of time came back more quickly and settled back into their accustomed pattern more easily. The face was that of the Italian, Contarini. He was looking both worried and disappointed. "You were not gone long, my lord king," he said. "But you _were_ gone. Of that there can be no doubt. Why did you return?"