It was indeed a big meeting which was being held at Professor Max Dormer’s place. Earlier in the day, carriage after carriage had rolled up the drive, and discharged its load beside the great lawn, whereon a marquee had been erected. Not a few of those present held a foremost place in the ranks of science, and Dormer’s heart leapt at the thought of the stunning blow he would be able to deal at his erstwhile rival, Mervyn. He knew that the returned scientist’s article in the London daily had attracted almost universal notice, and he was determined to bring forward this matter at this meeting, and expose before this representative gathering the daring effrontery of the writer. That any of the men of science would place any reliance upon Mervyn’s story he did not for a moment believe; but he determined to make the blow he was about to deal at the absent professor’s reputation as crushing as possible. So he arranged his notes with great care, running over in his mind as he moved amidst his guests the various points of his discourse. The meeting was at its height. Savant after savant had mounted the platform, and had addressed the great gathering. And now came Dormer’s turn. With all the eloquence that was in him, he was inveighing against his rival, urging that the man who could pen such a tissue of falsehoods deserved to be ostracised, when there came the clatter of hoofs upon the gravel of the drive. All turned at the sound--the side canvas of the marquee had been rolled up on account of the heat--wondering who this late-comer might be. A simultaneous gasp of amazement went up as the giant elk came into view with his mail-clad driver. Straight across the lawn Muswani pounded, almost up to the great tent itself. There he pulled up, announcing his appearance with a bellow that deafened the ears of the assembly. As he did so, Seymour leapt to earth, followed by the Ayuti. Into the tent the baronet strode. “Dormer!” he bawled, “come down here.” Trembling, the destroyer of Mervyn’s reputation descended from the platform, and threaded his way amidst his distinguished guests to where Seymour awaited him. “Are you responsible for that drivel in to-day’s ‘Gazette’?” the baronet demanded sternly. “I wrote that article, if that is what you mean,” retorted the other, with some show of spirit. “Then permit me to introduce you to the noble savage, the intellectual barbarian, His Royal Highness Prince Chenobi of Ayuti,” was the crushing reply and Seymour motioned for Chenobi to draw near. “Is this the dog who called me savage, Fairhair?” thundered the Ayuti. “This is he,” replied the baronet.