"It would be some comfort," John Vantine said, rather irritably, when he confided this strange story to me, "to know what was lost. It would have been uncommonly civil of the 'Great Mogul' to be a little more definite in his information. If the poor fellow lost his head in my service I am profoundly grateful, of course; but precious little good does it do me. Do you think the Psychical Society would undertake the job of discovering in what part of the universe I am rightfully dubbed the Great Master and that young rascal in the nursery is a prince! Unless they can do something, I'm afraid I shall be a half-starved New York lawyer to the end of the chapter." To which I had nothing satisfactory to answer. Interlude Fourth. THE RADIATOR. THE RADIATOR. A STUDY IN THE MODERN STYLE OF COLLOQUIAL FICTION. [_Scene, the chamber of Mr. and Mrs. Ellston, in an apartment hotel. Time, three A. M. The silence of the night is unbroken, save by the regular breathing of the sleepers, until suddenly, from the steam radiator, bursts a sound like the discharge of a battery of forty-pound guns._] _Mrs. E._ (_springing up in bed_) Oh! eh? what is that? [_Her husband moves uneasily in his sleep, but does not reply. The noise of the sledge-hammer score of the "Anvil Chorus" rings out from the radiator._] _Mrs. E._ George! George! Something is going to happen! Do wake up, or we shall be murdered in our sleep! _Mr. E._ (_with mingled ferocity and amusement_) There is small danger of anybody's being murdered in his sleep, my dear, where you are. It's only that confounded radiator; it's always making some sort of an infernal tumult. It can't do any harm. _Mrs. E._ But it will wake baby. _Mr. E._ Well, if it does, the nurse can get him to sleep again, I suppose. [_From the room adjoining is heard a clattering din, as if all the kettles and pans in the house were being thrown violently across the floor._] _Mrs. E._ There! The nursery radiator has begun. I must go and get baby. _Mr. E._ Let baby alone. If the youngster will sleep, for heaven's sake let him. The steam-pipes make noise enough for this time of night, one would think, without your taking the trouble to wake baby. _Mrs. E._ (_with volumes of reproach in her tone_) Your own little baby! You never loved him as his mother does. [_The disturbances now assume the likeness to a thoroughly inebriated drum corps practising upon sheet-iron air-tight stoves._] _Mr. E._ Of all unendurable rackets-- [_A sudden and sharp boom interrupts him. Mrs. Ellston screams, while her husband indulges in language which, although somewhat inexcusably forcible, is yet to be regarded as not unnatural under the circumstances._] _Mrs. E._ Oh, George, don't swear. It always seems so much worse to swear in danger; like tempting Providence; and I know there's going to be an explosion! _Mr. E._ (_severely_) Don't talk nonsense! The engineer has gone to sleep and left the drafts open, that's all. Don't be so absurd.