“Exactly,” broke in Hooper. “I told Karl last night that he was in for a series of first-rate biograph adventures now. He can’t avoid ’em. It is perfectly evident that Constantine will ring him up at any hour of the day or night. Great Scott! What a world it will be when we all possess a telelog number!” We ignored the new word, and neither Karl nor I had as yet hit on “telegnomy.” “I suppose you are right,” said Karl, submissively. “When a journalist and a lawyer come to dissect a modern miracle they leave precious little of its mysticism. But there is one thing you ought to do. You, Frank, as an eye-witness, to a certain extent, should set down in writing all that has taken place and all that I have told you, while our friend here can affix his signature as further testimony of its truth.” “Holy gee! Do you think I have missed a word of it?” cried Hooper, triumphantly producing his note-book. “This is only the first chapter of a romance,” I said. “It may be the end as well as the beginning,” was Grier’s quiet comment. “Do not forget that many years have elapsed between these different excitations of a faculty I cannot control. Last night I advanced a long stage in my attainments, and it is possible my extra sense may disappear as rapidly as it has developed.” “I cannot agree with you,” said I. “The history of your gradual extension of power seems rather to prove the opposite contention. By a slow and well-marked process, nature has perfected in you an amazing apparatus which probably heralds the advent of some mechanical contrivance far beyond the range of our present knowledge. Why should she suddenly destroy that which she has taken so long to fashion? It is unquestionable that birthmarks on human beings are produced by a curiously simple variant of the photographic lens. I have seen the dial of a clock reproduced in a girl’s eyes, the clear drawing of a rose on a child’s shoulder. Such pre-natal photographs are not common, but they have always been and will continue to be, while the human race possesses its present characteristics.” “I would be better content if some other subject were chosen for this new demonstration,” said he. “Oh, cheer up, Grier!” cried Hooper. “For all you know, you may be the last of the Mohicans. I was reading Pliny’s description of the ‘Agate of Pyrrhus’ the other day. Ever hear of it? No! Well, you have seen polished agates, and any one can find amusement in discovering heads, figures, animals, even landscapes in them. A good specimen is called a ‘gamaheu,’ and Pliny’s agate was a rip-snorter. It contained the Nine Muses with Apollo in the midst of them. Having attained the dignity of classic art, poor old nature grew tired, and now we have nary a gamaheu.” “You are scoffing,” I said indignantly. “Let us adjourn the session. I came here to see Oxford, not to indulge in physiolatry.”