“`You are dreaming—­yes.’  It was the Chinaman with the green eyes who was addressing me, and the words that he uttered appeared to occupy an immeasurable time in the utterance.  ‘But at will I can render the subjective objective.’  I don’t think I can have dreamed those singular words, gentlemen.

“And then he fixed the green eyes upon me—­the blazing green eyes.  I made no attempt to move.  They seemed to be draining me of something vital—­bleeding me of every drop of mental power.  The whole nightmare room grew green, and I felt that I was being absorbed into its greenness.

“I can see what you think.  And even in my delirium—­ if it was delirium—­I thought the same.  Now comes the climax of my experience—­my vision—­I don’t know what to call it.  I saw some words issuing from my own mouth!”

Inspector Weymouth coughed discreetly.  Smith whisked round upon him.

“This will be outside your experience, Inspector, I know,” he said, “but Mr. Norris West’s statement does not surprise me in the least.  I know to what the experience 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.”