“No doubt,” said Mr. Petre. “No doubt. Well, yes, if that’s the name. My memory failed completely and suddenly about noon on April 3rd, 1953—this year. I remember nothing of myself before that moment.” He had got it all in by rapid speaking.
“Pray don’t interrupt me,” said the Great Specialist, in the tone of a governess, only a little more pettishly. “It is a case of loss of memory, or rather, let us call it loss of identity.” He twisted his head sideways and murmured to himself: “What Pfungst has named ‘loss of the time-space continuum in its subjective aspect.’” Then he got his head into the normal position again and murmured in a still lower tone, which Mr. Petre could only just catch: “Paranoia penipsissimisma, some people call it.” He added a little louder, looking up at Mr. Petre and presenting the title with a touch of affection, “Also called Bantam’s Complex, from Bantam, Sir George Bantam.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Petre, slightly interested, but with too much gnawing at his heart to be really gripped by the thing.
“It is more generally known as the Seventh Sub-Complex, after Boileau’s category. It is universally so known upon the Continent—ah, yes,” then he began scribbling again. “This is the address you want,” said the Master of Modern Science, jumping up suddenly from his chair. He handed it as a superior officer might hand an order to a subordinate.
“Could I.... Can I see him now?”
“Now? At once?” answered the Specialist, frowning.
“Well,” said Mr. Petre, “I have reasons.”
“Yes, I know,” replied the other courteously. “You are all like that. I will see.” He pressed a buzzer with his foot, and told the man who came in to ring up Sir William Bland, and ask him whether he could see an urgent case on the part of Sir Henry Brail, a case of M.3. The man bowed as to Royalty, and reappeared saying that Sir William Bland happened to have just one half hour free, at that moment, from four-forty-five to five-fifteen. Mr. Petre looked at his watch. He had five minutes. He asked where it was. Strangely enough, this new address was also in Harley Street, and some odd connection beneath the level of the waking mind gave the new millionaire a mood of happiness at the thought that he had time to walk and save a taxi fare.
Then followed an awkward moment. Mr. Petre shyly pulled out the envelope. Sir Henry was far too precise and honorable for that.
“No! No! My dear sir,” he said. “I won’t dream of it. A misapprehension. My own fault indeed, but still, a misapprehension. I had the idea that you suffered from, I mean that we were to deal with—ah!—Illusions. Yes, Illusions. I don’t pretend to go out of my province. Indeed, I prefer not to deal with any cases not covered by Purall’s formula.... One moment.” He came rapidly up to his visitor and pushed back the lid of the right eye. “No,” he said, “not a case for me in any way.”