Trenmore began by asking his name.
The old fellow fumbled in his pockets a moment. "I find I have left my card case," he said, "but I am Phineas Dodd Scarboro. By profession I am an oculist. I am willing to tell you the history and nature of that dust. In order that I may do so intelligently, however, I must ask that you first relate your own experience with it."
There seemed nothing unreasonable in this request. Beginning with the first uncapping of the vial, they unfolded their remarkable narrative. Long before that tale was done, Martin had announced supper. The collector adjourned with them to the dining room. Bertram, however, declined, saying that he had no appetite and preferred to stay where he was. So he was left alone, hunched over in his chair, a figure of sorrow inconsolable. Trenmore took the precaution of bringing the packet of dust into the dining room.
"And so," concluded Trenmore over the coffee cups, "we got back to our own day again, and a very good job it was. I'd sooner put up with any hardships of our own time, than live out my life in the year 2118!"
Phineas Scarboro sniffed scornfully at Terry's last remark.
"The year fiddlesticks!" he exclaimed impatiently. "You might, if you had used that powder intelligently, have reached a plane where the vibration was so rapid that a year there was the equivalent of one day here. That, however, is the only form of trick you could play with time. To talk of time as a dimension through which one might travel is the merest nonsense. Time is not a dimension. It is a sequence, or rather a comparative sequence, of vibrations."
Trenmore threw up his hand. "Man, man, don't confuse us that way; we'll be worse off than we are now!"
"The sun rose and set at least twice while we were there," said Drayton.
"And if it was not the year 2118, then what was it and where were we?" This from Viola.
Scarboro placed his fingers together, tip to tip. He contemplated them for a moment without replying.