“I did not feel a bit sorry for my father.  He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality.  The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair.

“But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since.  Our eyes met.

“Something moved me to turn back and talk to her.  She was a very ordinary person.

“It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places.  I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place.  I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things.  Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality.  There were the things I knew and loved.  There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting.  And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details.

“I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes.  We need not go into that now.  For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden.  We must hunt him down.  We must get those books again.  But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later.  No, not those Roentgen vibrations—­I don’t know that these others of mine have been described.  Yet they are obvious enough.  I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine.  My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric.  It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish.

“I could scarcely believe I had done it.  I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever.  I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor.  I had a little trouble finding it again.

“And then came a curious experience.  I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window.  A thought came into my head.  ’Everything ready for you,’ I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly.  She came in, purring—­the poor beast was starving—­and I gave her some milk.  All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room.  After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home.  The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it!  But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed.  And I gave her butter to get her to wash.”

“And you processed her?”

“I processed her.  But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp!  And the process failed.”

“Failed!”

“In two particulars.  These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it?—­at the back of the eye in a cat.  You know?”