This man was the Right Honourable Viscount Doyne, the renowned Empire
Builder and Administrator, around whose solitary and remote life popular
imagination had woven many legends. He looked at the world through tired
grey eyes, and the heavy, drooping, blonde moustache seemed tired, too,
and had dragged down the tired face into deep furrows. He was smoking a
long black cigar.

"I suppose we may as well travel down together," said Sir Angus, not
very cordially.

Lord Doyne said courteously: "I have a reserved carriage. The railway
company is always good enough to place one at my disposal. It would give
me great pleasure if you would share it."

The invitation was accepted, and the three men crossed the busy, crowded
platform to take their seats in the great express train. A porter, laden
with an incredible load of paraphernalia, trying to make his way through
the press, happened to jostle Sir Angus McCurdie. He rubbed his shoulder
fretfully.

"Why the whole land should be turned into a bear garden on account of
this exploded superstition of Christmas is one of the anomalies of
modern civilization. Look at this insensate welter of fools travelling
in wild herds to disgusting places merely because it's Christmas!"

"You seem to be travelling yourself, McCurdie," said Lord Doyne.

"Yes--and why the devil I'm doing it, I've not the faintest notion,"
replied Sir Angus.

"It's going to be a beast of a journey," he remarked some moments later,
as the train carried them slowly out of the station. "The whole country
is under snow--and as far as I can understand we have to change twice
and wind up with a twenty-mile motor drive."

He was an iron-faced, beetle-browed, stern man, and this morning he did
not seem to be in the best of tempers. Finding his companions inclined
to be sympathetic, he continued his lamentation.

"And merely because it's Christmas I've had to shut up my laboratory and
give my young fools a holiday--just when I was in the midst of a most
important series of experiments."

Professor Biggleswade, who had heard vaguely of and rather looked down
upon such new-fangled toys as radium and thorium and helium and
argon--for the latest astonishing developments in the theory of
radio-activity had brought Sir Angus McCurdie his world-wide fame--said
somewhat ironically:

"If the experiments were so important, why didn't you lock yourself up
with your test tubes and electric batteries and finish them alone?"