as covered over with scribbles in
white chalk--notes made by Sarakoff who was in the habit of jotting down
figures and formulae on anything near at hand.

As there was only one chair in the room, Sarakoff eventually thrust me
into it, while he sat down on the great beast--whom he called
Belshazzar--and told me over and over again how glad he was to see me.
And this warmth of his was pleasant to me.

"Are you experimenting on Belshazzar?" I asked at length.

He nodded, and smiled enigmatically.

"He is two hundred years old," he said. "I want to get at his secret."

That was the first positive proof I got of the line of research Sarakoff
was intent upon, although, reading between the lines of his many
publications, I had guessed something of it.

In every way, Sarakoff was a complete contrast to me. Tall, lean,
black-bearded and deep-voiced, careless of public opinion and prodigal
in ideas, he was just my antithesis. He was possessed of immense energy.
His tousled black hair, moustaches and beard seemed to bristle with it;
it shone in his pale blue eyes. He was full of sudden violence, flinging
test-tubes across the laboratory, shouting strange songs, striding about
snapping his fingers. There was no repose in him. At first I was a
little afraid of him, but the feeling wore off. He spoke English
fluently, because when a boy he had been at school in London.

I will not enter upon a detailed account of our conversation that first
morning in Russia, when the snow lay thick on the roofs of the city, and
the ferns of frost sparkled on the window-panes of the laboratory.
Briefly, we found ourselves at one over many problems of human research,
and I congratulated myself on the fact that in communicating the account
of the miracle at St. Dane's Hospital to Sarakoff alone, I had done
wisely. He was wonderfully enthusiastic.

"That discovery of yours has furnished the key to the great riddle I had
set myself," he exclaimed, striding to and fro. "We will astonish the
world, my friend. It is only a question of time."

"But what is the riddle you speak of?" I asked.

"I will tell you soon. Have patience!" he cried. He came towards me
impulsively and shook my hand. "We shall find it beyond a doubt, and we
will call it the Sarakoff-Harden Bacillus! What do you think of that?"

I was somewhat mystified. He sat down again on the back of the tortoise,
smoking in his ferocious manner and smiling and nodding to himself. I
though