"Where indeed ?" The Major had vanished, dissolved out of mortal ken, melted (one might say) into thin air.

"If one may quote the Bard, sir, in this connection"-- Mr.
Basket wound up his recital--"like an insubstantial pageant faded he has left not a rack behind; that is to say, unless the letter in your hands may be considered as answering that description." "There's only one explanation," the Doctor declared.

"The man must be mad." Mr.Basket considered this for a moment and shook his head.

"We left him, sir, in the completest possession of his faculties.

In all my long acquaintance with him I never detected the smallest symptom of mental aberration; and last night--good God! to think that this happened no longer ago than last night!"-- Mr.Basket passed a hand over his brow--"Last night, sir, I recognised with delight the same shrewd judgment, the same masculine intellect, the same large outlook on men and affairs, the same self-confidence and self-respect--in short, sir, all the qualities for which I ever admired my old friend." "Nevertheless," the Doctor insisted, "he must have been mad when he penned this letter." "Of the contents of which, let me remind you, I am still ignorant." The Doctor glanced at Miss Marty, then handed the letter to Mr.
Basket with a bow.