“Is it really as you have said? Is there no hope beyond the six months of torture which I see lying before me? Can you with all your wisdom and knowledge see no spark of light or life in the dark shadow of eternal dissolution?” “Face it, my boy, face it!” said Challenger. “Better to look facts in the face than to console oneself with fancies.” Then the lips parted and the long-pent scream burst forth. Challenger rose and rushed from the room. But now an amazing development occurred. It began by the appearance of Miss Delicia Freeman. One morning there came a knock at the door of the Victoria flat. The austere and taciturn Austin looking out at the level of his eyes perceived nothing at all. On glancing downwards, however, he was aware of a small lady, whose delicate face and bright bird-like eyes were turned upwards to his own. “I want to see the Professor,” said she, diving into her handbag for a card. “Can’t see you,” said Austin. “Oh, yes, he can,” the small lady answered serenely. There was not a newspaper office, a statesman’s sanctum, or a political chancellory which had ever presented a barrier strong enough to hold her back where she believed that there was good work to be done. “Can’t see you,” repeated Austin. “Oh, but really I must, you know,” said Miss Freeman, and made a sudden dive past the butler. With unerring instinct she made for the door of the sacred study, knocked, and forthwith entered. The lion head looked up from behind a desk littered with papers. The lion eyes glared. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” the lion roared. The small lady was, however, entirely unabashed. She smiled sweetly at the glowering face. “I am so glad to make your acquaintance,” she said. “My name is Delicia Freeman.” “Austin!” shouted the Professor. The butler’s impassive face appeared round the angle of the door. “What is this, Austin? How did this person get here?” “I couldn’t keep her out,” wailed Austin. “Come miss, we’ve had enough of it.” “No, no! You must not be angry--you really must not,” said the lady sweetly. “I was told that you were a perfectly terrible person, but really you are rather a dear.” “Who are you? What do you want? Are you aware that I am one of the most busy men in London?” Miss Freeman fished about in her bag once more. She was always fishing in that bag, extracting sometimes a leaflet on Armenia, sometimes a pamphlet on Greece, sometimes a note on Zenana Missions, and sometimes a psychic manifesto. On this occasion it was a folded bit of writing-paper which emerged. “From Dr. Ross Scotton,” she said. It was hastily folded and roughly scribbled--so roughly as to be hardly legible. Challenger bent his heavy brows over it.