"Glad to see you, my dear fellow. I say, will you do something for me? You came in your machine, of course."
"Of course. What is it? It's about lunch-time, you know."
"Is it? But it won't take you long. I've run out of picric acid, and can't get on. Just fly over to Chatham, will you, and bring some back with you. You'll get it at Wells's in the High Street: you'll be there and back in half an hour or so."
"Can't you wait till after lunch?"
"Well, I can, but it will be a nuisance. You see, the whole experiment is hung up for want of the stuff."
"Oh, very well. By the way, you've done it at last, I see."
"Done what?"
"Pulled off the phenosulphonitro-something-or-other that you've been working at I don't know how long."
"How on earth did you know?" inquired his friend with an air of surprise and chagrin.
Burton pulled out a newspaper, unfolded it, and handed it over, pointing to a short paragraph.