And now my patient readers, I can address you directly no longer.  From now onwards (if, indeed, any continuation of this narrative should ever reach you) it can only be through the paper which I represent.  In the hands of the editor I leave this account of the events which have led up to one of the most remarkable expeditions of all time, so that if I never return to England there shall be some record as to how the affair came about.  I am writing these last lines in the saloon of the Booth liner Francisca, and they will go back by the pilot to the keeping of Mr. McArdle.  Let me draw one last picture before I close the notebook—­a picture which is the last memory of the old country which I bear away with me.  It is a wet, foggy morning in the late spring; a thin, cold rain is falling.  Three shining mackintoshed figures are walking down the quay, making for the gang-plank of the great liner from which the blue-peter is flying.  In front of them a porter pushes a trolley piled high with trunks, wraps, and gun-cases.  Professor Summerlee, a long, melancholy figure, walks with dragging steps and drooping head, as one who is already profoundly sorry for himself.  Lord John Roxton steps briskly, and his thin, eager face beams forth between his hunting-cap and his muffler.  As for myself, I am glad to have got the bustling days of preparation and the pangs of leave-taking behind me, and I have no doubt that I show it in my bearing.  Suddenly, just as we reach the vessel, there is a shout behind us.  It is Professor Challenger, who had promised to see us off.  He runs after us, a puffing, red-faced, irascible figure.

“No thank you,” says he; “I should much prefer not to go aboard.  I have only a few words to say to you, and they can very well be said where we are.  I beg you not to imagine that I am in any way indebted to you for making this journey.  I would have you to understand that it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, and I refuse to entertain the most remote sense of personal obligation.  Truth is truth, and nothing which you can report can affect it in any way, though it may excite the emotions and allay the curiosity of a number of very ineffectual people.  My directions for your instruction and guidance are in this sealed envelope.  You will open it when you reach a town upon the Amazon which is called Manaos, but not until the date and hour which is marked upon the outside.  Have I made myself clear?  I leave the strict observance of my conditions entirely to your honor.  No, Mr. Malone, I will place no restriction upon your correspondence, since the ventilation of the facts is the object of your journey; but I demand that you shall give no particulars as to your exact destination, and that nothing be actually published until your return.  Good-bye, sir.  You have done something to mitigate my feelings for the loathsome profession to which you unhappily belong.  Good-bye, Lord John.  Science is, as I understand, a sealed book to you; but you may congratulate yourself upon the hunting-field which awaits you.  You will, no doubt, have the opportunity of describing in the Field how you brought down the rocketing dimorphodon.  And good-bye to you also, Professor Summerlee.  If you are still capable of self-improvement, of which I am frankly unconvinced, you will surely return to London a wiser man.”