I told him all I could, but did not in the least seem to satisfy his perennial thirst for information.

“I should prefer to judge for myself,” he said at last.  “Why are you so anxious to learn about all these nations, Oro?” I asked, exhausted.

“Because the knowledge I gather may affect my plans for the future,” he replied darkly.

“I am told, Oro, that your people acquired the power of transporting themselves from place to place.”

“It is true that the lords of the Sons of Wisdom had such power, and that I have it still, O Humphrey.”

“Then why do you not go to look with your own eyes?” I suggested.

“Because I should need a guide; one who could explain much in a short time,” he said, contemplating me with his burning glance until I began to feel uncomfortable.

To change the subject I asked him whether he had any further information about the war, which he had told me was raging in Europe.

He answered:  “Not much; only that it was going on with varying success, and would continue to do so until the nations involved therein were exhausted,” or so he believed.  The war did not seem greatly to interest Oro.  It was, he remarked, but a small affair compared to those which he had known in the old days.  Then he departed, and I went to sleep.

Next night he appeared again, and, after talking a little on different subjects, remarked quietly that he had been thinking over what I had said as to his visiting the modern world, and intended to act upon the suggestion.

“When?” I asked.

“Now,” he said.  “I am going to visit this England of yours and the town you call London, and you will accompany me.”

“It is not possible!” I exclaimed.  “We have no ship.”

“We can travel without a ship,” said Oro.

I grew alarmed, and suggested that Bastin or Bickley would be a much better companion than I should in my present weak state.

“An empty-headed man, or one who always doubts and argues, would be useless,” he replied sharply.  “You shall come and you only.”

I expostulated; I tried to get up and fly—­which, indeed, I did do, in another sense.

But Oro fixed his eyes upon me and slowly waved his thin hand to and fro above my head.

My senses reeled.  Then came a great darkness.

They returned again.  Now I was standing in an icy, reeking fog, which I knew could belong to one place only—­London, in December, and at my side was Oro.

“Is this the climate of your wonderful city?” he asked, or seemed to ask, in an aggrieved tone.

I replied that it was, for about three months in the year, and began to look about me.

Soon I found my bearings.  In front of me were great piles of buildings, looking dim and mysterious in the fog, in which I recognised the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, for both could be seen from where we stood in front of the Westminster Bridge Station.  I explained their identity to Oro.