I repeated what he had said and he looked steadily at me for a long minute before he spoke again. “Oh, what’s the use!” he exclaimed, almost petulantly; “you wouldn’t understand and of course you wouldn’t believe. I do not understand it myself; but I have to believe because I know—I know from personal observation. God! if you could have seen what I have seen.” “Tell me,” I begged; but he shook his head dubiously. “Do you realize that there is no such thing as Time?” he asked suddenly—“That man has invented Time to suit the limitations of his finite mind, just as he has named another thing, that he can neither explain nor understand, Space?” “I have heard of such a theory,” I replied; “but I neither believe nor disbelieve—I simply do not know.” I thought I had him started and so I waited as I have read in fiction stories is the proper way to entice a strange narrative from its possessor. He was looking beyond me and I imagined that the expression of his eyes denoted that he was witnessing again the thrilling scenes of the past. I must have been wrong, though—in fact I was quite sure of it when he next spoke. “If that girl isn’t careful,” he said, “the thing will upset and give her a nasty fall—she is much too near the edge.” I turned to see a richly dressed and much dishevelled young lady busily dancing on a table-top while her friends and the surrounding diners cheered her lustily. My companion arose. “I have enjoyed your company immensely,” he said, “and I hope to meet you again. I am going to look for a place to sleep now—they could not give me a stateroom—I don’t seem to be able to get enough sleep since they sent me back.” He smiled. “Miss the gas shells and radio bombs, I suppose,” I remarked. “Yes,” he replied, “just as a convalescent misses smallpox.” “I have a room with two beds,” I said. “At the last minute my secretary was taken ill. I’ll be glad to have you share the room with me.” He thanked me and accepted my hospitality for the night—the following morning we would be in Paris. As we wound our way among the tables filled with laughing, joyous diners, my companion paused beside that at which sat the young woman who had previously attracted his attention. Their eyes met and into hers came a look of puzzlement and half-recognition. He smiled frankly in her face, nodded and passed on. “You know her, then?” I asked. “I shall—in two hundred years,” was his enigmatical reply. We found my room, and there we had a bottle of wine and some little cakes and a quiet smoke and became much better acquainted. It was he who first reverted to the subject of our conversation in the Blue Room.