I could but signify our acquiescence. Berthe had appeared at the kitchen door, thinking the stranger wanted his bill. He waved her away with his cigar, and in another moment had seated himself beside me, commanding a full view of Soames. "Though not an Englishman," he explained, "I know my London well, Mr. Soames. Your name and fame--Mr. Beerbohm's, too--very known to me. Your point is, who am _I_?" He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and in a lowered voice said, "I am the devil." I couldn't help it; I laughed. I tried not to, I knew there was nothing to laugh at, my rudeness shamed me; but--I laughed with increasing volume. The devil's quiet dignity, the surprise and disgust of his raised eyebrows, did but the more dissolve me. I rocked to and fro; I lay back aching; I behaved deplorably. "I am a gentleman, and," he said with intense emphasis, "I thought I was in the company of GENTLEMEN." "Don't!" I gasped faintly. "Oh, don't!" "Curious, nicht wahr?" I heard him say to Soames. "There is a type of person to whom the very mention of my name is--oh, so awfully--funny! In your theaters the dullest comedien needs only to say 'The devil!' and right away they give him 'the loud laugh what speaks the vacant mind.' Is it not so?" I had now just breath enough to offer my apologies. He accepted them, but coldly, and re-addressed himself to Soames. "I am a man of business," he said, "and always I would put things through 'right now,' as they say in the States. You are a poet. Les affaires--you detest them. So be it. But with me you will deal, eh? What you have said just now gives me furiously to hope." Soames had not moved except to light a fresh cigarette. He sat crouched forward, with his elbows squared on the table, and his head just above the level of his hands, staring up at the devil. "Go on," he nodded. I had no remnant of laughter in me now. "It will be the more pleasant, our little deal," the devil went on, "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.