‘Where did you really get them?’ said the Medical Man.

The Time Traveller put his hand to his head.  He spoke like one who was trying to keep hold of an idea that eluded him.  ’They were put into my pocket by Weena, when I travelled into Time.’  He stared round the room.  ’I’m damned if it isn’t all going.  This room and you and the atmosphere of every day is too much for my memory.  Did I ever make a Time Machine, or a model of a Time Machine?  Or is it all only a dream?  They say life is a dream, a precious poor dream at times—­but I can’t stand another that won’t fit.  It’s madness.  And where did the dream come from? ...  I must look at that machine.  If there is one!’

He caught up the lamp swiftly, and carried it, flaring red, through the door into the corridor.  We followed him.  There in the flickering light of the lamp was the machine sure enough, squat, ugly, and askew; a thing of brass, ebony, ivory, and translucent glimmering quartz.  Solid to the touch—­for I put out my hand and felt the rail of it—­and with brown spots and smears upon the ivory, and bits of grass and moss upon the lower parts, and one rail bent awry.

The Time Traveller put the lamp down on the bench, and ran his hand along the damaged rail.  ‘It’s all right now,’ he said.  ’The story I told you was true.  I’m sorry to have brought you out here in the cold.’  He took up the lamp, and, in an absolute silence, we returned to the smoking-room.

He came into the hall with us and helped the Editor on with his coat.  The Medical Man looked into his face and, with a certain hesitation, told him he was suffering from overwork, at which he laughed hugely.  I remember him standing in the open doorway, bawling good night.

I shared a cab with the Editor.  He thought the tale a ‘gaudy lie.’  For my own part I was unable to come to a conclusion.  The story was so fantastic and incredible, the telling so credible and sober.  I lay awake most of the night thinking about it.  I determined to go next day and see the Time Traveller again.  I was told he was in the laboratory, and being on easy terms in the house, I went up to him.  The laboratory, however, was empty.  I stared for a minute at the Time Machine and put out my hand and touched the lever.  At that the squat substantial-looking mass swayed like a bough shaken by the wind.  Its instability startled me extremely, and I had a queer reminiscence of the childish days when I used to be forbidden to meddle.  I came back through the corridor.  The Time Traveller met me in the smoking-room.  He was coming from the house.  He had a small camera under one arm and a knapsack under the other.  He laughed when he saw me, and gave me an elbow to shake.  ‘I’m frightfully busy,’ said he, ‘with that thing in there.’

‘But is it not some hoax?’ I said.  ’Do you really travel through time?’

‘Really and truly I do.’  And he looked frankly into my eyes.  He hesitated.  His eye wandered about the room.  ’I only want half an hour,’ he said.  ’I know why you came, and it’s awfully good of you.  There’s some magazines here.  If you’ll stop to lunch I’ll prove you this time travelling up to the hilt, specimen and all.  If you’ll forgive my leaving you now?’