"I know, I know," said the psychologist, mournfully; "it is a
most melancholy case, and also fortunately a very rare one. It is
so rare, in fact, that in one classification of these maladies it
is entered under a heading by itself--Perdinavititis, mental
inflammation creating the impression that one has lost a ship.
Really," he added, with a kind of half-embarrassed guilt, "it's
rather a feather in my cap. I discovered the only existing case of
perdinavititis."

"But this won't do, doctor," said Turnbull, almost tearing his
hair, "this really won't do. The man really did lose a ship.
Indeed, not to put too fine a point on it, I took his ship."

Dr. Quayle swung round for an instant so that his silk-lined
overcoat rustled, and stared singularly at Turnbull. Then he said
with hurried amiability: "Why, of course you did. Quite so, quite
so," and with courteous gestures went striding up the garden
path. Under the first laburnum-tree he stopped, however, and
pulling out his pencil and notebook wrote down feverishly:
"Singular development in the Elenthero-maniac, Turnbull. Sudden
manifestation of Rapinavititis--the delusion that one has stolen
a ship. First case ever recorded."

Turnbull stood for an instant staggered into stillness. Then he
ran raging round the garden to find MacIan, just as a husband,
even a bad husband, will run raging to find his wife if he is
full of a furious query. He found MacIan stalking moodily about
the half-lit garden, after his extraordinary meeting with
Beatrice. No one who saw his slouching stride and sunken head