“Yours faithfully,
“George Edward Challenger.

“The Briars, Rotherfield.”

“It’s a fine, steemulating letter,” said McArdle thoughtfully, fitting a cigarette into the long glass tube which he used as a holder.  “What’s your opeenion of it, Mr. Malone?”

I had to confess my total and humiliating ignorance of the subject at issue.  What, for example, were Fraunhofer’s lines?  McArdle had just been studying the matter with the aid of our tame scientist at the office, and he picked from his desk two of those many-coloured spectral bands which bear a general resemblance to the hat-ribbons of some young and ambitious cricket club.  He pointed out to me that there were certain black lines which formed crossbars upon the series of brilliant colours extending from the red at one end through gradations of orange, yellow, green, blue, and indigo to the violet at the other.

“Those dark bands are Fraunhofer’s lines,” said he.  “The colours are just light itself.  Every light, if you can split it up with a prism, gives the same colours.  They tell us nothing.  It is the lines that count, because they vary according to what it may be that produces the light.  It is these lines that have been blurred instead of clear this last week, and all the astronomers have been quarreling over the reason.  Here’s a photograph of the blurred lines for our issue to-morrow.  The public have taken no interest in the matter up to now, but this letter of Challenger’s in the Times will make them wake up, I’m thinking.”

“And this about Sumatra?”

“Well, it’s a long cry from a blurred line in a spectrum to a sick nigger in Sumatra.  And yet the chiel has shown us once before that he knows what he’s talking about.  There is some queer illness down yonder, that’s beyond all doubt, and to-day there’s a cable just come in from Singapore that the lighthouses are out of action in the Straits of Sundan, and two ships on the beach in consequence.  Anyhow, it’s good enough for you to interview Challenger upon.  If you get anything definite, let us have a column by Monday.”

I was coming out from the news editor’s room, turning over my new mission in my mind, when I heard my name called from the waiting-room below.  It was a telegraph-boy with a wire which had been forwarded from my lodgings at Streatham.  The message was from the very man we had been discussing, and ran thus:—­

Malone, 17, Hill Street, Streatham.—­Bring oxygen.—­Challenger.

“Bring oxygen!” The Professor, as I remembered him, had an elephantine sense of humour capable of the most clumsy and unwieldly gambollings.  Was this one of those jokes which used to reduce him to uproarious laughter, when his eyes would disappear and he was all gaping mouth and wagging beard, supremely indifferent to the gravity of all around him?  I turned the words over, but could make nothing even