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Updated: June 20, 2025
Three men who had gained great fame and honour throughout the world met unexpectedly in front of the bookstall at Paddington Station. Like most of the great ones of the earth they were personally acquainted, and they exchanged surprised greetings. Sir Angus McCurdie, the eminent physicist, scowled at the two others beneath his heavy black eyebrows.
I have some in a thermos bottle." Lord Doyne also declining the whiskey, McCurdie swallowed a dram and declared himself to be better. The Professor took from his bag a foreign review in which a German sciolist had dared to question his interpretation of a Hittite inscription. Over the man's ineptitude he fell asleep and snored loudly.
Sir Angus McCurdie, the hard, metallic apostle of radio-activity, glanced for a moment out of the window at the grey, frost-bitten fields. Then he said: "I'm a widower. My wife died many years ago and, thank God, we had no children. I generally spend Christmas alone." He looked out of the window again.
"Children are the root of all evil," said he. "Happy the man who has his quiver empty." Sir Angus McCurdie did not reply at once; when he spoke again it was with reference to their prospective host. "I met Deverill," said he, "at the Royal Society's Soirée this year. One of my assistants was demonstrating a peculiar property of thorium and Deverill seemed interested.
Don't you feel it?" and clutched Doyne by the arm. An expression of terror appeared on his iron features. "There! It's here with us." Little Professor Biggleswade sat on a corner of the table and wiped his forehead. "I heard it. I felt it. It was like the beating of wings." "It's the fourth time," said McCurdie. "The first time was just before I accepted the Deverills' invitation.
The three men looked at one another. Suddenly McCurdie shivered and drew his fur coat around him. "I'll thank you," said he, "to shut that window." "It is shut," said Doyne. "It's just uncanny," said McCurdie, looking from one to the other. "What?" asked Doyne. "Nothing, if you didn't feel it." "There did seem to be a sudden draught," said Professor Biggleswade.
They stood together humbly, divested of all their greatness, touching one another in the instinctive fashion of children, as if seeking mutual protection, and they looked, with one accord, irresistibly compelled, at the child. At last McCurdie unbent his black brows and said hoarsely: "It was not the Angel of Death, Doyne, but another Messenger that drew us here."
McCurdie kept his hand uplifted, and gazed over their heads at the wall, and his gaze was that of a man in a trance, and he spoke: "Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given " Doyne sprang from his chair, which fell behind him with a crash. "Man what the devil are you saying?"
"Man!" said McCurdie, bending across the carriage, and speaking with a curious intensity of voice, "d'ye know I'd give a hundred pounds to be able to answer that question?" "What do you mean?" asked the Professor, startled.
The car sped on through an unseen wilderness. Suddenly there was a horrid jolt and a lurch and a leap and a rebound, and then the car stood still, quivering like a ship that has been struck by a heavy sea. The three men were pitched and tossed and thrown sprawling over one another onto the bottom of the car. Biggleswade screamed. McCurdie cursed.
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