“It’s very good of you,” I protested, “I could come quite well at any other time.”
“I’m in no hurry,” he repeated. “You had better come to the scene of Victor Stott’s operations. He hasn’t been here for six weeks, by the way. Can you throw any light on his absence?”
I made a friend that afternoon. When the car came back at four o’clock, Challis sent it away again. “I shall probably stay down here to-night,” he said to the butler, and to me: “Can you stay to dinner? I must convince you about this child.”
“I have dined once to-day,” I said. “At half-past twelve. I have no other excuse.”
“Oh! well,” said Challis, “you needn’t eat, but I must. Get us something, Heathcote,” he said to the butler, “and bring tea here.”
Much of our conversation after dinner was not relevant to the subject of the Wonder; we drifted into a long argument upon human origins which has no place here. But by that time I had been very well informed as to all the essential facts of the Wonder’s childhood, of his entry into the world of books, of his earlier methods, and of the significance of that long speech in the library. But at that point Challis became reserved. He would give me no details.
“You must forgive me; I can’t go into that,” he said.
“But it is so incomparably important,” I protested.
“That may be, but you must not question me. The truth of the matter is that I have a very confused memory of what the boy said, and the little I might remember, I prefer to leave undisturbed.”
He piqued my curiosity, but I did not press him. It was so evident that he did not wish to speak on that head.