However, he could find his way, he thought
triumphantly, and ran on, dragging his hand along the slippery
stones of the wall--he could find his way. Only he must call out, to
tell them who it was that was lost. So he called himself by name,
aloud and sternly, and after that he kept on quietly enough, serene
in the conviction that he had regained his self-control, fighting to
keep his mind from returning to the face that changed before his
eyes, like the appearances in the puppet shows. But suddenly he
became conscious that it was his own name that he went shouting
through the passages; and that was openly absurd, he reasoned, since
if he wanted to be found he must call some one else's name. But he
must hurry--hurry--hurry; no one could tell what might be happening
back there to that face that changed.
"Olivia!" he shouted, "Amory! Jarvo--oh, Jarvo! Rollo, you
scoundrel--"
Whereat the memory that Rollo was somewhere on a yacht assailed him,
and he pressed on, blindly and in silence, until glimmering before
him he saw a light shining from an open door.
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