"For goodness sake," he said, "don't offend this fellow; he may
be as mad as ten hatters, if you like, but he has us between his
finger and thumb. This is the very time he appointed to talk with
us about our--well, our exeat."

"But what can it matter?" asked the wondering MacIan. "He can't
keep us in the asylum. We're not mad."

"Jackass!" said Turnbull, heartily, "of course we're not mad. Of
course, if we are medically examined and the thing is thrashed
out, they will find we are not mad. But don't you see that if the
thing is thrashed out it will mean letters to this reference and
telegrams to that; and at the first word of who we are, we shall
be taken out of a madhouse, where we may smoke, to a jail, where
we mayn't. No, if we manage this very quietly, he may merely let
us out at the front door as stray revellers. If there's half an
hour of inquiry, we are cooked."

MacIan looked at the grass frowningly for a few seconds, and then
said in a new, small and childish voice: "I am awfully stupid,
Mr. Turnbull; you must be patient with me."

Turnbull caught Evan's elbow again with quite another gesture.
"Come," he cried, with the harsh voice of one who hides emotion,
"come and let us be tactful in chorus."

The doctor with the pointed beard was already slanting it forward
at a more than usually acute angle, with the smile that expressed
expectancy.