Lönnrot applauds abruptly as if delighted. "It’s turtles all the way down, Inspector! All the stories are true. Everything depends on your direction of travel, and like children sharing bunk beds, metaphysicians argue about who goes on top. No. Shall we try once more? Am I Oliver Smith’s counter-narrative? A false personality conjured from—let us say, from Diana Hunter’s unconscious doubts—and set within her mind to untangle her and rope her like a wayward cow? Escaped into the world to wreak havoc, like any good monster, on my maker?" A dangerous flash of teeth now, of anger. "Is that what you think of me?"