It may expose you to the ridicule of fools; it
may subject you to the remonstrances of friends
whose opinions you are bound to respect—"

"Tell me what to do!"  I broke out
impatiently.  "And, come what may, I'll do it."

"You shall do this, Mr. Blake,"  he answered.
"You shall steal the Diamond, unconsciously,
for the second time, in the presence of witnesses
whose testimony is beyond dispute?"

I started to my feet. I tried to speak.  I
could only look at him.

"I believe it can be done,"  he went on.
"And it shall be done—if you will only help
me.  Try to compose yourself—sit down, and
hear what I have to say to you.  You have
resumed the habit of smoking; I have seen that
for myself.  How long have you resumed it?"

"For nearly a year."

"Do you smoke more, or less, than you did?"

"More."

"Will you give up the habit again?
Suddenly, mind!—as you gave it up before."

I began dimly to see his drift, "I will give
it up, from this moment," I answered.

"If the same consequences follow, which
followed last June,"  said Ezra Jennings—"if
you suffer once more as you suffered then, from
sleepless nights, we shall have gained our first
step.  We shall have put you back again into
something assimilating to your nervous condition
on the birthday night.  If we can next
revive, or nearly revive, the domestic
circumstances which surrounded you; and if we can
occupy your mind again with the various questions
concerning the Diamond which formerly
agitated it, we shall have replaced you, as
nearly as possible, in the same position,
physically and morally, in which the opium found
you last year.  In that case we may fairly hope
that a repetition of the dose will lead, in a
greater or lesser degree, to a repetition of the
result.  There is my proposal, expressed in a
few hasty words.  You shall now see what
reasons I have to justify me in making it."

He turned to one of the books at his side,
and opened it at a place marked by a small
slip of paper.

"Don't suppose that I am going to weary
you with a lecture on physiology," he said.
"I think myself bound to prove, in justice to
both of us, that I am not asking you to try
this experiment in deference to any theory of
my own devising.  Admitted principles, and
recognised authorities, justify me in the view
that I take.  Give me five minutes of your
attention; and I will undertake to show you
that Science sanctions my proposal, fanciful as
it may seem.  Here, in the first place, is the
physiological principle on which I am acting,
stated by no less a person than Dr. Carpenter.
Read it for yourself."

He handed me the slip of paper which had
marked the place in the book.  It contained a
few lines of writing, as follows:—

"There seems much ground for the belief, that
every sensory impression which has once been
recognised by the perceptive consciousness, is registered
(so to speak) in the brain, and may be reproduced at
some subsequent time, although there may be no
consciousness of its existence in the mind during
the whole intermediate period."

"Is that plain, so far?" asked Ezra
Jennings.

"Perfectly plain."

He pushed the open book across the table to
me, and pointed to a passage, marked by pencil
lines.

"Now," he said, "read that account of a case,
which has—as I believe—a direct bearing on
your own position, and on the experiment which
I am tempting you to try.  Observe, Mr. Blake,
before you begin, that I am now referring you
to one of the greatest of English physiologists.
The book in your hand is Doctor Elliotson's
Human Physiology; and the case which the
doctor cites, rests on the well-known authority
of Mr. Combe."

The passage pointed out to me, was expressed
in these terms:—

"Doctor Abel informed me," says Mr. Combe,
"of an Irish porter to a warehouse, who forgot,
when sober, what he had done when drunk; but,
being drunk, again recollected the transactions of his
former state of intoxication.  On one occasion, being
drunk, he had lost a parcel of some value, and in his
sober moments could give no account of it.  Next
time he was intoxicated, he recollected that he had
left the parcel at a certain house, and there being no
address on it, it had remained there safely, and was
got on his calling for it."

"Plain again?" asked Ezra Jennings.

"As plain as need be."

He put back the slip of paper in its place, and
closed the book.

"Are you satisfied that I have not spoken
without good authority to support me?" he
asked.  "If not, I have only to go to those
bookshelves, and you have only to read the
passages which I can point out to you."

"I am quite satisfied," I said, "without reading
a word more."

"In that case, we may return to your own
personal interest in this matter.  I am bound to
tell you that there is something to be said against
the experiment as well as for it.  If we could,
this year, exactly reproduce, in your case, the
conditions as they existed last year, it is
physiologically certain that we should arrive at exactly
the same result.  But this—there is no denying
it—is simply impossible.  We can only hope to
approximate to the conditions; and if we don't
succeed in getting you nearly enough back to
what you were, this venture of our's will fail.
If we do succeed—and I am myself hopeful of
success—you may at least so far repeat your
proceedings on the birthday night, as to satisfy
any reasonable person that you are guiltless,
morally speaking, of the theft of the Diamond.
I believe, Mr. Blake, I have now stated the
question, on both sides of it, as fairly as I can,
within the limits that I have imposed on myself.
If there is anything that I have not made clear
to you, tell me what it is—and if I can enlighten
you, I will."