CHAPTER II

von Arthur Conan Doyle · 2026-03-31

I always had a soft spot for McArdle, the grumpy old news editor with a hunched back and a shock of red hair. I hoped he felt the same way about me. Sure, Beaumont was the real boss, but he floated in a different realm, one where only international crises or government splits mattered. We’d occasionally catch a glimpse of him striding past, lost in thought, his gaze distant as he pondered the Balkans or the Persian Gulf. He was untouchable, while McArdle was the one we connected with.

He nodded as I walked into the room, pushing his glasses up on his bald head.

"Well, Mr. Malone, I hear you’re doing quite well," he said in his warm Scottish accent.

I thanked him, feeling a swell of pride.

"The colliery explosion was excellent, and so was the Southwark fire. You have a real knack for description. What did you want to discuss?"

"I’d like to ask for a favor."

His expression shifted to one of concern, and he avoided my gaze. "Tut, tut! What is it?"

"Do you think you could send me on some assignment for the paper? I’d do my best to deliver some good material."

"What kind of assignment are you thinking about, Mr. Malone?"

"Anything with adventure and danger. I’d really give it my all. The more challenging, the better."

"You seem quite eager to throw your life away."

"More like eager to make my life worthwhile, sir."

"Goodness, Mr. Malone, that’s quite lofty. I’m afraid those days are behind us. The costs of ‘special missions’ hardly justify the outcome, and only experienced journalists with established reputations get those kinds of assignments. The big blank spaces on the map are filling up, and there’s no room left for romance. But wait!" He suddenly brightened. "Speaking of blank spaces, how about exposing a fraud—a modern-day Munchausen? You could show him up for the liar he is! What do you think?"

"I’m open to anything—anywhere. I don’t mind."

McArdle fell silent, deep in thought for a few moments.

"I wonder if you could get on friendly terms with the guy," he finally said. "You seem to have a talent for connecting with people—maybe it’s empathy or some kind of youthful energy. I can sense it myself."

"You’re too kind, sir."

"So why not try your luck with Professor Challenger, over at Enmore Park?"

I must have looked surprised.

"Challenger!" I exclaimed. "Professor Challenger, the famous zoologist? Isn’t he the one who broke Blundell’s skull at the Telegraph?"

McArdle smiled grimly.

"Do you mind? Didn’t you say you were looking for adventures?"

"It’s all part of the job, sir," I replied.

"Exactly. I doubt he’s always that violent. Perhaps Blundell just caught him at a bad moment. You might have better luck or more tact. I’m sure there’s a story there for the Gazette."

"I really don’t know much about him," I admitted. "I only remember his name from the police reports about the incident with Blundell."

"I have some notes to help you, Mr. Malone. I’ve been keeping an eye on the Professor for a while." He pulled a paper from his drawer. "Here’s a summary of his background:

'Challenger, George Edward. Born: Largs, N.B., 1863. Educated: Largs Academy; Edinburgh University. British Museum Assistant, 1892. Assistant Keeper of the Comparative Anthropology Department, 1893. Resigned after a heated correspondence that same year. Winner of the Crayston Medal for Zoological Research. Foreign Member of—well, quite a few organizations, about two inches of small print—'Societe Belge, American Academy of Sciences, La Plata, etc. Ex-President of the Palaeontological Society. Section H, British Association'—and so on! 'Publications: "Some Observations Upon a Series of Kalmuck Skulls"; "Outlines of Vertebrate Evolution"; and numerous papers, including "The Underlying Fallacy of Weissmannism," which sparked heated debates at the Zoological Congress in Vienna. Hobbies: Walking, Alpine climbing. Address: Enmore Park, Kensington, W.'

"There you go. Take this with you. I don’t have anything more for you tonight."

I tucked the paper into my pocket.

"One moment, sir," I said, realizing it was a pink bald head, not a red face, that was in front of me. "I’m still not clear on why I’m supposed to interview this gentleman. What has he done?"

His expression shifted back to seriousness.

Two years ago, he set off on a solo expedition to South America. He returned last year, but while he certainly went there, he refused to disclose exactly where. He started sharing his adventures in a vague manner, but as soon as someone began to question him, he clammed up like an oyster. Something extraordinary must have happened—or he’s just a master liar, which seems more likely. He had some damaged photographs that were rumored to be fakes. He became so defensive that he would lash out at anyone who dared to ask questions, even throwing reporters down the stairs. In my opinion, he’s just a violent megalomaniac with a penchant for science. That’s your man, Mr. Malone. Now, off you go and see what you can make of him. You’re tough enough to handle yourself. Besides, you’re covered under the Employers' Liability Act, you know.

With that, a grinning red face transformed back into a pink oval, fringed with ginger fluff—the interview was over.

I walked over to the Savage Club, but instead of going inside, I leaned against the railings of Adelphi Terrace and stared thoughtfully at the brown, oily river for a long time. I always think most clearly when I’m outdoors. I pulled out the list of Professor Challenger's exploits and read it under the electric lamp. Then, what I can only describe as an inspiration struck me. As a journalist, I felt certain that I would never be able to connect with this irritable professor. But the criticisms mentioned in his brief biography suggested he was a fanatic about science. Was there a way to approach him on that front? I decided to give it a try.

I entered the club. It was just after eleven, and the main room was fairly busy, though the rush hadn’t fully begun yet. I spotted a tall, thin man sitting in an armchair by the fire. As I drew my chair closer, he turned to face me. It was exactly the person I needed—Tarp Henry, from the staff of Nature. He was a lean, dry, leathery man, but those who knew him understood he had a kind heart. I dove straight into my topic.

“What do you know about Professor Challenger?”

“Challenger?” He frowned, clearly disapproving. “He’s the one who came back with some ridiculous story from South America.”

“What story?”

“Oh, it was utter nonsense about some bizarre animals he claimed to have discovered. I believe he has since retracted it. In any case, he’s buried it all. He gave an interview to Reuter's, and when there was such an uproar, he realized it wouldn’t fly. It was a disreputable affair. A few people were inclined to take him seriously, but he quickly silenced them.”

“How?”

“Well, through his unbearable rudeness and outrageous behavior. There was poor old Wadley from the Zoological Institute. Wadley sent a message: ‘The President of the Zoological Institute presents his compliments to Professor Challenger and would appreciate it if he could honor them with his presence at their next meeting.’ The response was unprintable.”

“You don’t say?”

“A cleaned-up version would be: ‘Professor Challenger presents his compliments to the President of the Zoological Institute and would appreciate it if he would go to hell.’”

“Good Lord!”

“Yes, I imagine that’s what old Wadley said. I remember his lament at the meeting, which started with: ‘In fifty years of scientific interaction—’ It completely broke the poor man.”

“Anything else about Challenger?”

“Well, I’m a bacteriologist, you know. I spend my time peering through a nine-hundred-diameter microscope. I can hardly take anything seriously that I can see with the naked eye. I’m a frontiersman at the edge of the Knowable, and I feel completely out of place when I leave my study and interact with all you big, rough, hulking types. I’m too detached to gossip, but I have heard some things about Challenger at scientific gatherings, for he’s one of those figures nobody can ignore. He’s as brilliant as they come—a powerhouse of energy and intellect, but he’s also quarrelsome, ill-tempered, and unscrupulous. He even went so far as to fake some photographs related to his South American claims.”

“You say he’s a faddist. What’s his latest obsession?”

“He has many, but the most recent is something about Weissmann and Evolution. I believe he had a huge argument about it in Vienna.”

“Can you tell me the specifics?”

“Not at the moment, but there’s a translation of the proceedings. We have it filed at the office. Would you like to come with me?”

“That’s exactly what I need. I have to interview the guy, and I could use some background. It’s really generous of you to help me out. I’ll go with you now, if it’s not too late.”

Half an hour later, I found myself in the newspaper office, staring at a hefty book opened to the article titled "Weissmann versus Darwin," with the subtitle, "Spirited Protest at Vienna. Lively Proceedings." My scientific education had been somewhat lacking, so I struggled to grasp the entire argument. It was clear that the English professor had approached his topic with a confrontational tone, thoroughly irritating his colleagues from the Continent.

Words like "Protests," "Uproar," and "General appeal to the Chairman" jumped out at me, but most of the text might as well have been in Chinese for all the sense it made to me.

"I wish you could translate this into plain English for me," I said, feeling a bit defeated as I turned to my companion.

"Well, it is a translation," he replied.

"Then I guess I should try my luck with the original."

"It’s definitely a bit too complex for a layperson."

"If I could just find one solid, meaningful sentence that conveyed some kind of human idea, that would be enough for me. Ah, yes, this one looks promising. I think I almost understand it. I’ll jot it down. This will be my connection to that formidable professor."

"Anything else I can help with?"

"Actually, yes. I plan to write to him. If I could draft the letter here and use your address, it would add a nice touch."

"We’ll have him here making a scene and breaking furniture."

"No, no, you’ll see the letter—nothing contentious, I promise."

"Well, that’s my chair and desk. You’ll find paper there. I’d like to review it before it goes out."

It took some effort, but I was pleased with the final result. I read it aloud to my critical companion, feeling proud of my work.

"DEAR PROFESSOR CHALLENGER," it began, "As a humble student of Nature, I have always been deeply interested in your thoughts on the differences between Darwin and Weissmann. Recently, I had the occasion to refresh my memory by re-reading----"

"You lying scoundrel!" Tarp Henry muttered under his breath.

--"by re-reading your brilliant address at Vienna. That clear and insightful statement seems to be the definitive word on the subject. However, there is one sentence that stands out: 'I protest strongly against the insufferable and entirely dogmatic assertion that each separate id is a microcosm possessed of an historical architecture elaborated slowly through the series of generations.' In light of recent research, do you not feel inclined to reconsider this statement? Do you not think it may be overstated? With your permission, I would like to request an interview, as I have strong feelings on the topic and certain suggestions that I could only discuss in person. If agreeable, I hope to have the honor of visiting you at eleven o'clock the day after tomorrow (Wednesday) morning.

"I remain, Sir, with the utmost respect, yours truly,

EDWARD D. MALONE."

"How’s that?" I asked, feeling triumphant.

"Well, if your conscience can handle it----"

"It has never let me down before."

"But what do you plan to do?"

"Get in there. Once I’m in his office, I might find an opportunity. I might even confess openly. If he’s a sportsman, he’ll appreciate it."

"Appreciate it? He’s much more likely to be the one doing the appreciating. You’ll need chain mail or a football suit for protection. Well, goodbye. I’ll have his response for you here on Wednesday morning—if he even bothers to reply. He’s a volatile, difficult character, disliked by everyone who encounters him, and the target of students’ jokes, as far as they dare to poke fun at him. Perhaps it would be best if you never heard from him at all."