"Can we let ourselves out, then?" asked Turnbull, in some
surprise.

"Why, of course not," said the beaming scientist; "think how
dangerous that would be in a place like this."

"Then, how the devil are we to get out?" cried Turnbull, losing
his manners for the first time.

"It is a question of time, of receptivity, and treatment," said
the doctor, arching his eyebrows indifferently. "I do not regard
either of your cases as incurable."

And with that the man of the world was struck dumb, and, as in
all intolerable moments, the word was with the unworldly.

MacIan took one stride to the table, leant across it, and said:
"We can't stop here, we're not mad people!"

"We don't use the crude phrase," said the doctor, smiling at his
patent-leather boots.

"But you _can't_ think us mad," thundered MacIan. "You never saw
us before. You know nothing about us. You haven't even examined
us."

The doctor threw back his head and beard. "Oh, yes," he said,
"very thoroughly."