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notes enclosed," returned the Scotsman dryly. "Rather a lot to pay for a joke, eh?"
"Madman," was Terry's next suggestion.
"If so, then he's the most scientific one I've struck yet."
"Who is he, anyway?"
"That's just what we'd like to know. The covering letter bore neither address nor signature, while the manifesto—for that's what the advertisement amounts to—was also unsigned. The chief thinks there's something serious behind his blather; but he wants to get the most authoritative opinion on the subject before he decides whether to publish or not. That's why I've spoilt your beauty sleep."
"Well, I don't think my opinion would carry much weight" Terry began modestly.
"I wasn't asking for it," cut in McBlair. "The man whose opinion we're hankering after is Professor Amos Merrivale, LL. D., F. R. S., and a few other letters that I've forgotten for the minute. He's the foremost authority on cosmical statics, and he happens to live in your neighborhood—Tudor Towers, Blackheath. Interview him, and get his opinion of the soundness or otherwise of the scientific proposition I'm about to dictate to you."
For the next five minutes Terry's pencil flew rapidly over his notebook as he took down the string of words which came across the wire. It was with a sigh of heart-felt relief that he at last hung up the receiver; then, having washed, shaved and breakfasted in record time, he set out upon his quest.
Terry Hinton had entered the realms of journalism by a devious route which had embraced in turn university lecture-rooms, army dug-outs, and the stages of provincial theaters. Although no startling success had marked his journey to the "Street of Ink," the experience gained thereby proved of no little service in the profession in which he now found himself. A hitherto unsuspected "nose for news," together with a knack of presenting the acquired information in an eminently readable form, had raised him, at the age of twenty-seven, from a tentative free-lance to a full-blown reporter.
Tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, his figure was that of one who could enjoy to the full the thrill of a well-contested rugger match or the friendly rivalry of the running-track. A stickler for classical regularity might have hesitated to call him handsome; yet there was a pleasing look on his clean-cut features, and his steady gray eyes held an expression that seemed to indicate that the brain behind them was both keen to observe and quick to act.
In spite of its name, Tudor Towers was far from being an ancient structure, having been erected less than thirty years since by a soap-boiler who had retired from business with unlimited wealth and a taste for sham antiques. But the stuccoed walls looked quite as gloomily depressing as the genuine article as Terry, passing beneath the portcullis of the frowning outer gate, made his way to the main entrance and rang the bell.
"Kindly step this way, sir," said the liveried man-servant, receiving Terry's card on a silver salver and ushering him into a small room hung with tapestry and lighted by narrow, slitlike windows. The change from the bright sunlight to the half-darkness of the room had been so abrupt that for a moment Terry's dazzled eyes could not discern if the room was tenanted or not.
"A gentleman to see Professor Merrivale," said the man in a mournful tone; then withdrew and closed the door.
There was a slight rustling movement, and a girl came forward into