“Arbuthnot,” he said, “I have come to the conclusion that I have gone quite mad. I beg you if I should show signs of homicidal mania, which I feel developing in me where Bastin is concerned, or of other abnormal violence, that you will take whatever steps you consider necessary, even to putting me out of the way if that is imperative.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “You seem sane enough.” “Sane, when I believe that I have seen and experienced a great number of things which I know it to be quite impossible that I should have seen or experienced. The only explanation is that I am suffering from delusions.” “Then is Bastin suffering from delusions, too?” “Certainly, but that is nothing new in his case.” “I don’t agree with you, Bickley—about Bastin, I mean. I am by no means certain that he is not the wisest of the three of us. He has a faith and he sticks to it, as millions have done before him, and that is better than making spiritual experiments, as I am sorry to say I do, or rejecting things because one cannot understand them, as you do, which is only a form of intellectual vanity.” “I won’t argue the matter, Arbuthnot; it is of no use. I repeat that I am mad, and Bastin is mad.” “How about me? I also saw and experienced these things. Am I mad, too?” “You ought to be, Arbuthnot. If it isn’t enough to drive a man mad when he sees himself exactly reproduced in an utterly impossible moving-picture show exhibited by an utterly impossible young woman in an utterly impossible underground city, then I don’t know what is.” “What do you mean?” I asked, starting. “Mean? Well, if you didn’t notice it, there’s hope for you.” “Notice what?” “All that envoy scene. There, as I thought, appeared Yva. Do you admit that?” “Of course; there could be no mistake on that point.” “Very well. Then according to my version there came a man, still young, dressed in outlandish clothes, who made propositions of peace and wanted to marry Yva, who wanted to marry him. Is that right?” “Absolutely.” “Well, and didn’t you recognise the man?” “No; I only noticed that he was a fine-looking fellow whose appearance reminded me of someone.” “I suppose it must be true,” mused Bickley, “that we do not know ourselves.” “So the old Greek thought, since he urged that this should be our special study. ‘Know thyself,’ you remember.” “I meant physically, not intellectually. Arbuthnot, do you mean to tell me that you did not recognise your own double in that man? Shave off your beard and put on his clothes and no one could distinguish you apart.” I sprang up, dropping my pipe. “Now you mention it,” I said slowly, “I suppose there was a resemblance. I didn’t look at him very much; I was studying the simulacrum of Yva. Also, you know it is some time since—I mean, there are no pier-glasses in Orofena.” “The man was _you_,” went on Bickley with conviction. “If I were superstitious I should think it a queer sort of omen. But as I am not, I know that I must be mad.”