Produced by Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) THE WORLD MASTERS _Ready shortly_ _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ SIDELIGHTS ON CONVICT LIFE _With numerous Illustrations taken from Life_ Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt, 6s. JOHN LONG, Publisher LONDON THE WORLD MASTERS BY GEORGE GRIFFITH AUTHOR OF "_The Angel of the Revolution_," "_Brothers of the Chain_," "_The Justice of Revenge_," "_A Honeymoon in Space_," "_Captain Johnnie_," _etc. etc._ London John Long 13 and 14 Norris Street, Haymarket 1903 [_All Rights Reserved_] THE WORLD MASTERS PROLOGUE THE MOMENT OF TRIUMPH High above the night-shrouded street, whose silence was only broken by the occasional tramp of the military patrol or the gruff challenges of the sentries on the fortifications, a man was walking, with jerky, uneven strides, up and down a vast attic in an ancient house overlooking the old Fisher's Gate, close by where the River Ill leaves the famous city of Strassburg. The room, practically destitute of ordinary furniture, was fitted up as a chemical and physical laboratory, and the man was Doctor Emil Fargeau, the most distinguished scientific investigator that the lost province of Alsace had produced--a tall, spare man of about sixty, with sloping, stooping shoulders and forward-thrown head, thinly covered with straggling iron-grey hair. It was plain that he was in the habit of shaving clean, but just now there was a short white stubble both on his upper lip and on the lean wrinkled cheeks which showed the nervous workings of the muscles so plainly. In fact, his whole appearance was that of a man too completely absorbed by an over-mastering idea to pay any attention to the small details of life. And such was the exact truth--for these few mid-night minutes which were being ticked off by an ancient wooden clock in the corner were the most anxious of his life. In fact, a few more of them would decide whether the Great Experiment, for which he had sacrificed everything, even to his home and his great professional position, was to be a success or a failure. On the long, bare, pine table, beside which he was pacing up and down, stood a strange fabric about three feet high. It was round, and about the size of a four-gallon ale jar. It was covered completely by a closed glass cylinder, and rested on four strong glass supports. From the floor on either side of the table a number of twisted, silk-covered wires rose from two sets of storage batteries. Within the four supports was a wooden dish, and on this lay a piece of bright steel some four inches square and about an inch thick, just under a circle of needles which hung down in a circle from the bottom of the machine.