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Chapter I. The Blurring Of Lines

           Itwasatelegraph-boywithawirewhichhadbeenforwardedfrommylodgingsatStreatham.Themessagewasfromtheverymanwehadbeendiscussing,andranthus:—

           Malone,17,HillStreet,Streatham.—Bringoxygen.—Challenger.

           "Bringoxygen!"TheProfessor,asIrememberedhim,hadanelephantinesenseofhumourcapableofthemostclumsyandunwieldlygambollings.Wasthisoneofthosejokeswhichusedtoreducehimtouproariouslaughter,whenhiseyeswoulddisappearandhewasallgapingmouthandwaggingbeard,supremelyindifferenttothegravityofallaroundhim?Iturnedthewordsover,butcouldmakenothingevenremotelyjocoseoutofthem.Thensurelyitwasaconciseorder—thoughaverystrangeone.HewasthelastmanintheworldwhosedeliberatecommandIshouldcaretodisobey.Possiblysomechemicalexperimentwasafoot;possibly——Well,itwasnobusinessofminetospeculateuponwhyhewantedit.Imustgetit.TherewasnearlyanhourbeforeIshouldcatchthetrainatVictoria.Itookataxi,andhavingascertainedtheaddressfromthetelephonebook,ImadefortheOxygenTubeSupplyCompanyinOxfordStreet.

           AsIalightedonthepavementatmydestination,twoyouthsemergedfromthedooroftheestablishmentcarryinganironcylinder,which,withsometrouble,theyhoistedintoawaitingmotor-car.Anelderlymanwasattheirheelsscoldinganddirectinginacreaky,sardonicvoice.Heturnedtowardsme.Therewasnomistakingthoseausterefeaturesandthatgoateebeard.Itwasmyoldcross-grainedcompanion,ProfessorSummerlee.

           "What!"hecried.

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