ly 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 could have known that his soul was in the seventh
heaven of ecstasy. He did not think; he did not even very definitely
desire. He merely wallowed in memories, chiefly in material memories;
words said with a certain cadence or trivial turns of the neck or wrist.
Into the middle of his stationary and senseless enjoyment were thrust
abruptly the projecting elbow and the projecting red beard of Turnbull.
MacIan stepped back a little, and the soul in his eyes came very slowly
to its windows. When James Turnbull had the glittering sword-point
planted upon his breast he was in far less danger. For three pulsating
seconds after the interruption MacIan was in a mood to have murdered his
father.

And yet his whole emotional anger fell from him when he saw Turnbull's
face, in which the eyes seemed to be bursting from the head like
bullets. All the fire and fragrance even of young and honourable love
faded for a moment before that stiff agony of interrogation.

"Are you hurt, Turnbull?" he as