"A Catholic diabolist," said Soames.

The devil accepted the reservation genially.

"You wish," he resumed, "to visit now--this afternoon as-ever-is
--the reading-room of the British Museum, yes? But of a hundred years
hence, yes? Parfaitement. Time--an illusion. Past and
future--they are as ever present as the present, or at any rate only what
you call 'just round the corner.' I switch you on to any date. I project
you--pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room just as it will be
on the afternoon of June 3, 1997? You wish to find yourself standing in
that room, just past the swing-doors, this very minute, yes? And to stay
there till closing-time? Am I right?"

Soames nodded.

The devil looked at his watch. "Ten past two," he said.
"Closing-time in summer same then as now--seven o'clock. That will
give you almost five hours. At seven o'clock--pouf!--you find
yourself again here, sitting at this table. I am dining to-night dans le
monde--dans le higlif. That concludes my present visit to your great
city. I come and fetch you here, Mr. Soames, on my way home."

"Home?" I echoed.

"Be it never so humble!" said the devil, lightly.

"All right," said Soames.

"Soames!" I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle.