ence was due."

Weymouth stared incredulously, but a dawning perception of the truth
was come to me, too.

"How I SAW a SOUND I just won't attempt to explain; I simply tell you I
saw it. Somehow I knew I had betrayed myself--given something away."

"You gave away the secret of the lock combination!" rapped Smith.

"Eh!" grunted Weymouth.

But West went on hoarsely:

"Just before the blank came a name flashed before my eyes. It was
'Bayard Taylor.'"

At that I interrupted West.

"I understand!" I cried. "I understand! Another name has just
occurred to me, Mr. West--that of the Frenchman, Moreau."

"You have solved the mystery," said Smith. "It was natural Mr. West
should have thought of the American traveler, Bayard Taylor, though.
Moreau's book is purely scientific. He has probably never read it."

"I fought with the stupor that was overcoming me," continued West,
"striving to associate that vaguely familiar name with the fantastic
things through which I moved. It seemed to me that the room was empty
again. I made for the hall, for the telephone. I could scarcely drag
my feet along. It seemed to take me half-an-hour to get there. I
remember calling up Scotland Yard, and I remember no more."

There was a short, tense interval.

In some respects I was nonplused; but, frankly, I think Inspector
Weymouth considered West insane. Smith, his hands locked behind his
back, stared out of the window.

"ANDAMAN--SECOND" he said suddenly. "Weymouth, when is the first train
to Tilbury?"

"Five twenty-two from Fenchurch Street," replied the Scotland Yard man
promptly.

"Too late!" rapped my friend. "Jump in a taxi and pick up two good men
to leave for China at once! Then go and charter a special to Tilbury
to leave in twenty-five minutes. Order another cab to wait outside for
me."

Weymouth was palpably amazed, but Smith's tone was imperative. The
Inspector departed hastily.

I stared at Smith, not comprehending what prompted this singular course.

"Now that you can think clearly, Mr. West," he said, "of what does your
experience remind you? The errors of perception regarding time; the
idea of SEEING A SOUND; the illusion that the room alternately
increased and diminished in size; your fit of laughter, and the
recollection of the name Bayard Taylor. Since evidently you are
familiar with that author's work--'The Land of the Saracen,' is it
not?--these symptoms of the attack should be familiar,