"because you are--I mistake not?--a diabolist."

"A Catholic diabolist," said Soames.

The devil accepted the reservation genially.

"You wish," he resumed, "to visit now--this afternoon as-ever-is--the
reading-room of the British Museum, yes? But of a hundred years hence,
yes? Parfaitement. Time--an illusion. Past and future--they are as
ever present as the present, or at any rate only what you call 'just
round the corner.' I switch you on to any date. I project you--pouf!
You wish to be in the reading-room just as it will be on the afternoon
of June 3, 1997? You wish to find yourself standing in that room, just
past the swing-doors, this very minute, yes? And to stay there till
closing-time? Am I right?"

Soames nodded.

The devil looked at his watch. "Ten past two," he said. "Closing-time
in summer same then as now--seven o'clock. That will give you almost
five hours. At seven o'clock--pouf!--you find yourself again here,
sitting at this table. I am dining to-night dans le monde--dans le
higlif. That concludes my present visit to your great city. I come
and fetch you here, Mr. Soames, on my way home."

"Home?" I echoed.

"Be it never so humble!" said the devil, lightly.

"All right," said Soames.

"Soames!" I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle.

The devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the
table, but he paused in his gesture.

"A hundred years hence, as now," he smiled, "no smoking allowed in the
reading-room. You would better therefore--"

Soames removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his
glass of Sauterne.

"Soames!" again I cried. "Can't you"--but the devil had now stretched
forth his hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on the
table-cloth. Soames's chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden
in his wine-glass. There was no other trace of him.

For a few moments the devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at
me out of the corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant.

A shudder shook me. With an effort I controlled myself and rose from
my chair. "Very clever," I said condescendingly. "But--'The Time
Machine' is a delightful book, don't you think? So entirely original!"

"You are pleased to sneer," said the devil, who had also risen, "but it
is one thing to write about an impossible machine; it is a quite other
thing to be a supernatural power." All the same, I had scored.

Berthe had come forth at the so