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-
