"Well, upon my word!" said in quiet, incisive tones the voice of Henry Scott (of the Psychical Research Society). "I hardly dared to hope for so complete a triumph! My good friends, it is one a.m. As the clock struck twelve you sank into hypnotic trance; on the point of its striking one, you emerged. The hour of interval was telescoped in your waking consciousness to a few seconds. As for the lights--at half-past twelve Doctor Pennock went to bed. She turned them out as she passed through the house. I asked her to. I will relight them now." And he walked to the nearest window, crossed the room within and switched on every lamp. The bemused wits of the victims of Mr. Scott's hypnotic joke could not immediately respond to this sudden revelation of the truth. Also their eyes blinked in the new brilliance of projected light. Mrs. Dane-Vereker was the first to recover speech. "But where is that wretch Amélie?" she gasped. "And the Commissary?" demanded Father Anthony. "And the Old Gentleman?" echoed the Courier. "Turpin, by the lord Harry!" shouted the Bureaucrat. "But you've eloped with Mrs. Dane!" "The guile of an enemy detained me in a damp and poorly ventilated cave," complained the Professor. "There was a tramp here with a dog!" moaned the poet. "The terrace was crowded with police!" cried Peter Brown, "and it was still daylight!..." Mr. Scott enjoyed their bewilderment with the cruel calm of the true psychological investigator. "You will never see any of those people again," he observed quietly. "Except poor Amélie, who is in bed this three hours, I invented them all. Not a bad set of creations, were they?" A snore from the shadow drew attention to the stertorous oblivion of Mr. Buck, the retired master printer. "Buck was my only failure," said the psychical researcher. "He was fast asleep when I started in. I say nothing of Doctor Pennock; she was too much for me; but then she knows the game. Nevertheless, she had the sportsmanship to leave me at it." By this time signs of considerable indignation were visible among the dupes of Mr. Scott's inventive skill. The Lady of Fashion recalled with blushing fury her supposed escapade with the absurd Courier. The Bureaucrat re-lived his angry helplessness behind the iron grille. Before, however, anger could break out, the tension gave way to the irrepressible humour of Peter Brown. Suddenly he began to laugh, and each moment he laughed more loudly and more shamelessly. One by one the others joined, until by the healthy wind of merriment every trailing wisp of irritation was dispelled and blown away. Mr. Scott rose to his feet.