“Oh, yes, sir,” replied the doctor, smiling, “I accept everything that you say.”
“In that case,” said Turnbull, rising genially, “we must not further interrupt your important duties. I suppose there will be someone to let us out?”
“No,” said the doctor, still smiling steadily and pleasantly, “there will be no one to let you out.”
“Can we let ourselves out, then?” asked Turnbull, in some surprise.
“Why, of course not,” said the beaming scientist; “think how dangerous that would be in a place like this.”
“Then, how the devil are we to get out?” cried Turnbull, losing his manners for the first time.
“It is a question of time, of receptivity, and treatment,” said the doctor, arching his eyebrows indifferently. “I do not regard either of your cases as incurable.”
And with that the man of the world was struck dumb, and, as in all intolerable moments, the word was with the unworldly.
MacIan took one stride to the table, leant across it, and said: “We can't stop here, we're not mad people!”
“We don't use the crude phrase,” said the doctor, smiling at his patent-leather boots.