I clicked off the mirror connection so he could not see me. And then, with a sudden impulse that I could not check, I hung up the instrument and staggered out of the cubby. The crowd thronging the circle was in tumultuous movement now, every one struggling to get away. A surge of people and vehicles. I shoved into them, aimless, trembling. I had been a cad with Dr. Plantet. What was the matter with me? I did not know. I stood for a moment against a direction post, trying to collect my wits. The crowd surged around me. The platforms for the near-by Yonkers District were loading up; the Jersey local flyer lay on its stage off on a side street, where the roof ended; I could see the lights through the rain, people crowding onto it. Thoughts pressed at my aching head. Thoughts that I could not interpret. Soundless words thumping at my brain--I could almost hear them, but not quite. Then a realization steadied me. I was not going mad. These pressing ghosts of thoughts--why, I had once heard a lecturer on telepathy describe the thing in some such fashion as this. It steadied me. Was this telepathy? Was something, some one’s thoughts trying to get through to me? I clung to the direction post, trying to fathom my feelings. Arturo? Nereid? Or was it a ghost of Tad Megan, here with me? What was he saying-- A pedestrian director came up to me. “You all right?” “Yes, yes, of course.” He regarded me sharply; his hand drew me from the post. “Alcoholic?” “No. Of course not!” I laughed. “What’s your name?” “Geoffry Grant.” I showed him my signature, pricked officially in the flesh of my arm. He glanced up at the call board. “There you are--guess they want you at home. Get along now.” I hurried away, glad to escape him. My name was again on the call board; Dr. Plantet, trying to get me to come back and talk. I found myself in the rain, on a lower street with only one level. The rain seemed to clear my confusion. And suddenly I heard, soundlessly in my head, the thought: “_Arturo and Tad Megan need you. Come._” I stood against a dark shop window, with the rain drenching me. I thought intensely: “_Where? Come where?_” I murmured it, half aloud. “_Come where?_” “_Arturo needs you. Nereid’s island--you remember? Come alone--come--come--_” I think, in that instant, all my morbidity dropped away. The need for action spurred me. This at least seemed something tangible. Something to do. Normality came to me, I was the old Jeff Grant, not a sniveling, trembling coward, afraid of his own thoughts. And I believe I understood, in part, what had been the matter with me all these months. I turned back to the glare of Broadway, and called Dr. Plantet. “I’m sorry I shut off on you, Dr. Plantet. Don’t ask me--I cannot come.” “But why?” “I can’t tell you now, I’ll try to let you know soon.” “But--” Something said to me: “Keep your own counsel,” but I added: “I’ll trust you, Dr. Plantet. It’s about Arturo.”