CHAPTER III

von Arthur Conan Doyle · 2026-04-28

**"He is a Perfectly Impossible Person"**

My friend's anxiety—or perhaps his hope—was about to be put to the test. When I arrived on Wednesday, a letter awaited me, marked from West Kensington, with my name scrawled across the envelope in a handwriting that resembled a barbed-wire fence. The contents were as follows:

"ENMORE PARK, W.

"SIR,

I have received your note in which you claim to support my views, although I don’t believe they require endorsement from you or anyone else. You’ve used the term 'speculation' regarding my statements on Darwinism, and I must point out that such a word in this context is quite offensive. However, I understand that your choice of words stems more from ignorance and a lack of tact than from any ill intent, so I will overlook it this time.

You’ve quoted an isolated sentence from my lecture and seem to struggle with its meaning. I would have thought that only a sub-human intelligence could fail to grasp the point, but if it truly requires clarification, I will agree to meet you at the appointed time, despite my general aversion to visitors. As for your suggestion that I might change my opinion, let me assure you that I do not alter my views once they have been thoughtfully expressed. Please show the envelope of this letter to my man, Austin, when you arrive, as he must take every precaution to shield me from the intrusive rascals who call themselves 'journalists.'

Yours faithfully,

GEORGE EDWARD CHALLENGER."

I read this letter aloud to Tarp Henry, who had come down early to hear the outcome of my endeavor. His only comment was, "There's some new stuff, cuticura or something, which is better than arnica." Some people have such peculiar senses of humor.

It was nearly half-past ten by the time I received my message, but a taxi whisked me to my appointment just in time. We stopped in front of an impressive house with a grand portico, and the heavily draped windows suggested considerable wealth on the part of this formidable professor. The door was opened by a peculiar, swarthy man of indeterminate age, dressed in a dark pilot jacket and brown leather gaiters. I later learned he was the chauffeur, filling in for a series of butlers who had come and gone. He scrutinized me with a piercing light blue eye.

"Expected?" he asked.

"An appointment."

"Got your letter?"

I produced the envelope.

"Right!" He seemed to be a man of few words. As I followed him down the hallway, I was suddenly interrupted by a small woman who stepped out from what turned out to be the dining room. She was a bright, lively lady with dark eyes, more French than English in appearance.

"One moment," she said. "You can wait, Austin. Step in here, sir. May I ask if you’ve met my husband before?"

"No, madam, I have not had the honor."

"Then I apologize in advance. I must warn you that he is a perfectly impossible person—absolutely impossible. If you’re forewarned, you’ll be more prepared to make allowances."

"That’s very considerate of you, madam."

"Get out of the room quickly if he seems inclined to be violent. Don’t wait to argue with him. Several people have been injured for doing that. Afterward, there’s a public scandal, and it reflects poorly on me and everyone involved. I assume it’s not about South America that you wanted to see him?"

I couldn’t lie to a lady.

"Dear me! That’s his most dangerous subject. You won’t believe a word he says—I can’t blame you. But don’t tell him so, as it makes him very violent. Pretend to believe him, and you might get through this unscathed. Remember, he believes it himself. You can be sure of that. A more honest man never lived. Don’t linger any longer, or he might suspect something. If you find him truly dangerous, ring the bell and keep him at bay until I arrive. Even at his worst, I can usually manage him."

With these encouraging words, the lady handed me over to the stoic Austin, who had stood like a bronze statue of discretion during our brief exchange. I was led to the end of the hallway. There was a tap at a door, a booming voice from within, and soon I found myself face to face with the Professor.

He sat in a spinning chair behind a wide table cluttered with books, maps, and diagrams. As I walked in, he turned to face me, and I couldn’t help but gasp. I had expected something unusual, but nothing prepared me for the overwhelming presence of this man.

His size was astonishing—his stature and commanding aura were enough to take anyone’s breath away. His head was enormous, the largest I had ever seen on a human. I imagined that if I ever dared to wear his top hat, it would slide right over my head and rest on my shoulders. His face and beard reminded me of an Assyrian bull; his complexion was ruddy, and his beard was so dark it almost had a hint of blue, shaped like a spade and cascading down over his chest. His hair was styled oddly, slicked down in a long, sweeping curl over his massive forehead.

His eyes, a piercing blue-gray, were framed by thick black brows, sharp and critical, exuding authority. Above the table, all I could see were his broad shoulders and barrel-like chest, along with two enormous hands covered in long black hair. This, combined with his booming, thunderous voice, formed my first impression of the infamous Professor Challenger.

"Well?" he said, glaring at me with an insolent stare. "What do you want?"

I knew I had to maintain my facade a little longer; otherwise, this interview would come to an abrupt end.

"You were kind enough to give me an appointment, sir," I replied, trying to sound humble as I handed him the envelope.

He took my letter from his desk and laid it out in front of him.

"Oh, you’re the young person who can’t grasp plain English, are you? You approve of my general conclusions, I take it?"

"Absolutely, sir—completely!" I replied, trying to sound emphatic.

"Well, that certainly strengthens my position, doesn’t it? Your youth and appearance make your support even more valuable. At least you’re better than that herd of swine in Vienna, whose collective grunting is no more offensive than the solitary efforts of the British hog." He glared at me as if I were the embodiment of that beast.

"They seem to have behaved terribly," I said.

"I assure you, I can fight my own battles, and I have no need for your sympathy. Leave me alone, sir, with my back against the wall. That’s when G. E. C. is at his best. Now, let’s see how we can shorten this visit, which I’m sure is not enjoyable for you and is incredibly tedious for me. I understand you have some comments on the proposition I presented in my thesis?"

His brutal directness made it hard to evade his questions. I had to play my cards right and wait for a better opportunity. It had seemed simple enough from a distance. Oh, my Irish wits, where were you when I needed you most? He fixed me with two sharp, steely eyes. "Come on!" he rumbled.

"I’m just a student," I said with a foolish smile, "hardly more than an earnest inquirer. But I thought you might have been a bit harsh on Weissmann in this matter. Hasn’t the general evidence since then tended to—well, strengthen his position?"

"What evidence?" he asked, his calm demeanor menacing.

"Well, I know there isn’t any what you might call DEFINITE evidence. I was merely referring to the trend of modern thought and the general scientific perspective, if I may say so."

He leaned forward, his intensity palpable.

"I suppose you’re aware," he said, ticking off points on his fingers, "that the cranial index is a constant factor?"

"Of course," I replied.

"And that telegony is still under debate?"

"Absolutely."

"And that germ plasm is distinct from the parthenogenetic egg?"

"Yes, indeed!" I exclaimed, feeling a rush of boldness.

"But what does that prove?" he asked, his voice suddenly gentle and persuasive.

"Ah, what indeed?" I murmured. "What does it prove?"

"Shall I tell you?" he cooed.

"Please do."

"It proves," he roared, erupting with fury, "that you are the most despicable imposter in London—a vile, crawling journalist with no more science in you than decency!"

He leapt to his feet, rage blazing in his eyes. Even in that tense moment, I was struck by the realization that he was quite short, his head barely reaching my shoulder—a stunted Hercules whose immense vitality had all concentrated in depth, breadth, and intellect.

“Gibberish!” he shouted, leaning forward with his fingers pressed against the table, his face jutting out. “That’s what I’ve been talking to you about, sir—scientific gibberish! Did you really think you could outsmart me with your tiny brain? You think you’re all-powerful, don’t you, you insufferable writers? That your praise can elevate a man and your criticism can destroy him? We all have to bow to you, hoping for a kind word, right? This guy gets a boost, and that guy gets a dressing down! I know your kind—crawling vermin! You’ve stepped out of line. There was a time when you were kept in check. You’ve lost your perspective. Inflated egos! I’ll put you back where you belong. Yes, sir, you haven’t escaped G. E. C. There’s one man who still holds power over you. He warned you to stay away, but if you insist on coming back, you’re doing it at your own risk. Forfeit, my good Mr. Malone, I claim forfeit! You’ve played a dangerous game, and it seems you’ve lost.”

“Listen here, sir,” I said, backing toward the door and opening it. “You can be as rude as you want, but there’s a limit. You won’t lay a finger on me.”

“Will I not?” He advanced slowly, menacingly, before stopping and slipping his large hands into the pockets of his somewhat childish short jacket. “I’ve thrown several of your kind out of this house. You’ll be the fourth or fifth. Three pounds fifteen each—that’s how it averages out. Expensive, but necessary. Now, sir, why shouldn’t you join your brethren? I think you must.” He resumed his unpleasant advance, walking with pointed toes like a dance instructor.

I could have bolted for the hall door, but that would have been too humiliating. Besides, a surge of righteous anger was rising within me. I had been wrong before, but this man’s threats were making me feel justified.

“I’ll ask you to keep your hands to yourself, sir. I won’t tolerate it.”

“Oh dear!” His black mustache lifted, and a sneer revealed a white fang. “You won’t tolerate it, huh?”

“Don’t be such a fool, Professor!” I exclaimed. “What do you think you can achieve? I weigh fifteen stone, I’m as tough as nails, and I play center three-quarter every Saturday for the London Irish. I’m not the one—”

It was at that moment he charged at me. Luckily, I had opened the door, or we would have crashed right through it. We tumbled down the hallway together, somehow managing to grab a chair along the way, and we barreled toward the street with it. My mouth was full of his beard, our arms were locked, our bodies tangled, and that damn chair was flailing its legs all around us. The ever-watchful Austin had flung open the hall door. We went tumbling down the front steps in a chaotic backflip. I’d seen the two Macs attempt something similar at the halls, but it clearly takes practice to pull it off without injury. The chair splintered at the bottom, and we rolled apart into the gutter. He jumped to his feet, fists raised, wheezing like someone with asthma.

“Had enough?” he gasped.

“You bully!” I shouted as I pulled myself together.

Right then, we should have settled it, as he was practically buzzing with aggression, but thankfully I was saved from a nasty situation. A policeman appeared beside us, notebook in hand.

“What’s going on here? You should be ashamed,” said the officer. It was the most sensible thing I’d heard in Enmore Park. “Well,” he insisted, turning to me, “what’s the story?”

“This man attacked me,” I replied.

“Did you attack him?” the policeman asked.

The Professor was panting heavily and remained silent.

“It’s not the first time, either,” the officer said, shaking his head disapprovingly. “You were in trouble last month for the same thing. You’ve given this young man a black eye. Do you want to press charges, sir?”

I hesitated.

“No,” I said finally. “I won’t.”

“What’s that?” the policeman asked.

“I was at fault myself. I intruded on him. He gave me fair warning.”

The officer snapped his notebook shut.

“Let’s not have any more of this nonsense,” he said. “Now, move along, everyone!” This was directed at a butcher’s boy, a maid, and a few loafers who had gathered. He stomped down the street, herding them along. The Professor looked at me, a hint of humor flickering in his eyes.

“Come in!” he said. “I’m not done with you yet.”

The words had a sinister ring, but I followed him into the house anyway. The servant, Austin, like a wooden statue, closed the door behind us.