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“You’ve told it very well, this time, Joe,” Minver said. “But Acton here is waiting for the psychology. Poor old Wanhope ought to be here,” he added to me. He looked about for a match to light his pipe, and his brother jerked his head in the direction of the chimney.

“Box on the mantel. Yes,” he sighed, “that was really something very curious. You see, I had invented the whole history of the case from the time I got into the Back Bay car with my flowers. Absolutely nothing had happened of all I had remembered till I got out of the car. I did not put the picture beside me at the end of the car; I did not keep my hand on it while I talked with General Filbert; I did not leave it behind me when I left the car. Nothing of the kind happened. I had already left it at the florist’s, and that whole passage of experience which was so vividly and circumstantially stamped in my memory that I related it four or five times over, and would have made oath to every detail of it, was pure invention, or, rather, it was something less positive: the reflex of the first half of my horse-car experience, when I really did put the picture in the corner next me, and did keep my hand on it.”

“Very strange,” I was beginning, but just then the door opened and Mrs. Minver came in, and I was presented.

She gave me a distracted hand, as she said to her husband: “Have you been telling the story about that picture again?” He was still holding it. “Silly!”

She was a mighty pretty woman, but full of vim and fun and sense.

“It’s one of the most curious freaks of memory I ever heard of, Mrs. Minver,” I said.

Then she showed that she was proud of it, though she had called him silly. “Have you told,” she demanded of her husband, “how oddly your memory behaved about the subject of the picture, too?”

“I have again eaten that particular piece of humble-pie,” Minver’s brother replied.

“Well,” she said to me, “I think he was simply so possessed with the awfulness of having lost the picture that all the rest took place prophetically, but unconsciously.”

“By a species of inverted presentiment?” I suggested.

“Yes,” she assented, slowly, as if the formulation were new to her, but not unacceptable. “Something of that kind. I never heard of anybody else having it.”

Minver had got his pipe alight, and was enjoying it. “I think Joe was simply off his nut, for the time being.”