y had so persistently ignored,
there rose to my ears from the swaying crowd such a low moan of entreaty
and terror, such a shuddering cry for help to the Unknown, that----" and
so forth.

Yes, it would be a great end for a reporter, though, like myself, he
would die with the treasures still unused. What would Bond not give,
poor chap, to see "J. H. B." at the foot of a column like that?

But what drivel I am writing! It is just an attempt to pass the weary
time. Mrs. Challenger has gone to the inner dressing-room, and the
Professor says that she is asleep. He is making notes and consulting
books at the central table, as calmly as if years of placid work lay
before him. He writes with a very noisy quill pen which seems to be
screeching scorn at all who disagree with him.

Summerlee has dropped off in his chair and gives from time to time a
peculiarly exasperating snore. Lord John lies back with his hands in his
pockets and his eyes closed. How people can sleep under such conditions
is more than I can imagine.

Three-thirty a.m. I have just wakened with a start. It was five minutes
past eleven when I made my last entry. I remember winding up my watch
and noting the time. So I have wasted some five hours of the little span
still left to us. Who would have believed it possible? But I feel very
much fresher, and ready for my fate--or try to persuade myself that I am.
And yet, the fitter a man is, and the higher his tide of life, the more
must he shrink from death. How wise and how merciful is that provision
of nature by which his earthly anchor is usually loosened by many little
imperceptible tugs, until his consciousness has drifted out of its
untenable earthly harbor into the great sea beyond!

Mrs. Challenger is still in the dressing room. Challenger has fallen
asleep in his chair. What a picture! His enormous frame leans back, his
huge, hairy hands are clasped across his waistcoat, and his head is so
tilted that I can see nothing above his collar save a tangled bristle of
luxuriant beard. He shakes with the vibration of his own snoring.
Summerlee adds his occasional high tenor to Challenger's sonorous bass.
Lord John is sleeping also, his long body doubled up sideways in a
basket-chair. The first cold light of dawn is just stealing into the
room, and everything is grey and mournful.

I look out at the sunrise--that fateful sunrise which will shine upon an
unpeopled world. The human race is gon