modern earth that cannot enjoy man or beast. I will die happy in
your madhouse, only because I know what I know. Let it be
granted, then--MacIan is a mystic; MacIan is a maniac. But this
honest shopkeeper and editor whom I have dragged on my inhuman
escapades, you cannot keep him. He will go free, thank God, he is
not down in any damned document. His ancestor, I am certain, did
not die at Culloden. His mother, I swear, had no relics. Let my
friend out of your front door, and as for me----"

The doctor had already gone across to the laden shelves, and
after a few minutes' short-sighted peering, had pulled down
another parallelogram of dark-red wood.

This also he unlocked on the table, and with the same unerring
egotistic eye on of the company saw the words, written in large
letters: "Turnbull, James."

Hitherto Turnbull himself had somewhat scornfully surrendered his
part in the whole business; but he was too honest and unaffected
not to start at his own name. After the name, the inscription
appeared to run: "Unique case of Eleutheromania. Parentage, as so
often in such cases, prosaic and healthy. Eleutheromaniac signs
occurred early, however, leading him to attach himself to the
individualist Bradlaugh. Recent outbreak of pure anarchy----"

Turnbull slammed the case to, almost smashing it, and said with a
burst of savage laughter: "Oh! come along, MacIan; I don't care
so much, even about getting out of the madhouse, if only we get
out of this room. You were right enough, MacIan, when you spoke
about--about mad doctors."