My own interest in the coming drug certainly did not wane in the time.  I have always had a queer little twist towards metaphysics in my mind.  I have always been given to paradoxes about space and time, and it seemed to me that Gibberne was really preparing no less than the absolute acceleration of life.  Suppose a man repeatedly dosed with such a preparation:  he would live an active and record life indeed, but he would be an adult at eleven, middle-aged at twenty-five, and by thirty well on the road to senile decay.  It seemed to me that so far Gibberne was only going to do for any one who took his drug exactly what Nature has done for the Jews and Orientals, who are men in their teens and aged by fifty, and quicker in thought and act than we are all the time.  The marvel of drugs has always been great to my mind; you can madden a man, calm a man, make him incredibly strong and alert or a helpless log, quicken this passion and allay that, all by means of drugs, and here was a new miracle to be added to this strange armoury of phials the doctors use!  But Gibberne was far too eager upon his technical points to enter very keenly into my aspect of the question.

It was the 7th or 8th of August when he told me the distillation that would decide his failure or success for a time was going forward as we talked, and it was on the 10th that he told me the thing was done and the New Accelerator a tangible reality in the world.  I met him as I was going up the Sandgate Hill towards Folkestone—­I think I was going to get my hair cut, and he came hurrying down to meet me—­I suppose he was coming to my house to tell me at once of his success.  I remember that his eyes were unusually bright and his face flushed, and I noted even then the swift alacrity of his step.

“It’s done,” he cried, and gripped my hand, speaking very fast; “it’s more than done.  Come up to my house and see.”

“Really?”

“Really!” he shouted.  “Incredibly!  Come up and see.”

“And it does—­twice?”

“It does more, much more.  It scares me.  Come up and see the stuff.  Taste it!  Try it!  It’s the most amazing stuff on earth.”  He gripped my arm and; walking at such a pace that he forced me into a trot, went shouting with me up the hill.  A whole char-a-banc-ful of people turned and stared at us in unison after the manner of people in chars-a-banc.  It was one of those hot, clear days that Folkestone sees so much of, every colour incredibly bright and every outline hard.  There was a breeze, of course, but not so much breeze as sufficed under these conditions to keep me cool and dry.  I panted for mercy.

“I’m not walking fast, am I?” cried Gibberne, and slackened his pace to a quick march.

“You’ve been taking some of this stuff,” I puffed.

“No,” he said.  “At the utmost a drop of water that stood in a beaker from which I had washed out the last traces of the stuff.  I took some last night, you know.  But that is ancient history now.”