For a moment, I had thought to enter the room and confront this stranger, but the shouting stopped me. The first shout slid greasily from the man's throat, unmistakably the voice which had disturbed me so in the courtyard. There was no way I could enter a room and confront the owner of such a voice. And, even as I watched him berate himself in the mirror, I realised that the sight of him, from behind and in a darkened room though it might be, was acting on my eyes in much the same way as his voice did on my ears. He was hard to look at for any length of time without feeling nauseous. I desperately wanted to look away, but found my gaze riveted to him as I heard another voice, that of my master. I am not a man given to great flights of fancy, but the voice unmistakably came from the throat of this stranger. In the same slurring words I had overheard from the window, I heard my master respond to the imprecations of the disquieting stranger and then the stranger respond in turn. I could not see the whole of the room, but at no moment did I think to look to see if my master was elsewhere in the room, for I knew I could trust the testimony of my eyes and ears. Whatever else might have been happening in that room, and whatever else may have happened to bring things about, my master was somehow sharing the body of this misshapen visitor. I felt cold penetrate to my very heart, despite the warmth of the evening, and turned and quietly left the building, leaving my master to argue with - well, with himself.