The chauffeur must, as it seemed to me, have been a novice or else have lost his nerve in this disturbance, for he drove vilely on the way to the station.  Twice we nearly had collisions with other equally erratic vehicles, and I remember remarking to Summerlee that the standard of driving in London had very much declined.  Once we brushed the very edge of a great crowd which was watching a fight at the corner of the Mall.  The people, who were much excited, raised cries of anger at the clumsy driving, and one fellow sprang upon the step and waved a stick above our heads.  I pushed him off, but we were glad when we had got clear of them and safe out of the park.  These little events, coming one after the other, left me very jangled in my nerves, and I could see from my companion’s petulant manner that his own patience had got to a low ebb.

But our good humour was restored when we saw Lord John Roxton waiting for us upon the platform, his tall, thin figure clad in a yellow tweed shooting-suit.  His keen face, with those unforgettable eyes, so fierce and yet so humorous, flushed with pleasure at the sight of us.  His ruddy hair was shot with grey, and the furrows upon his brow had been cut a little deeper by Time’s chisel, but in all else he was the Lord John who had been our good comrade in the past.

“Hullo, Herr Professor!  Hullo, young fella!” he shouted as he came toward us.

He roared with amusement when he saw the oxygen cylinders upon the porter’s trolly behind us.  “So you’ve got them too!” he cried.  “Mine is in the van.  Whatever can the old dear be after?”

“Have you seen his letter in the Times?” I asked.

“What was it?”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Summerlee harshly.

“Well, it’s at the bottom of this oxygen business, or I am mistaken,” said I.

“Stuff and nonsense!” cried Summerlee again with quite unnecessary violence.  We had all got into a first-class smoker, and he had already lit the short and charred old briar pipe which seemed to singe the end of his long, aggressive nose.

“Friend Challenger is a clever man,” said he with great vehemence.  “No one can deny it.  It’s a fool that denies it.  Look at his hat.  There’s a sixty-ounce brain inside it—­a big engine, running smooth, and turning out clean work.  Show me the engine-house and I’ll tell you the size of the engine.  But he is a born charlatan—­you’ve heard me tell him so to his face—­a born charlatan, with a kind of dramatic trick of jumping into the limelight.  Things are quiet, so friend Challenger sees a chance to set the public talking about him.  You don’t imagine that he seriously believes all this nonsense about a change in the ether and a danger to the human race?  Was ever such a cock-and-bull story in this life?”

He sat like an old white raven, croaking and shaking with sardonic laughter.

A wave of anger passed through me as I listened to Summerlee.  It was disgraceful that he should speak thus of the leader who had been the source of all our fame and given us such an experience as no men have ever enjoyed.  I had opened my mouth to utter some hot retort, when Lord John got before me.