“Get the disc,” he whispered, and after a moment’s reflection I understood what he meant; I emptied one bath as quietly as possible into the other, then dragged it across the carpet to the bedside of the snoring Goldie who was to be “healed.” The ridiculous experiment swept me with such a sense of reality, owing to the intense belief LeVallon injected into it, that I never once felt inclined to laugh. I was only vaguely afraid that Goldingham might somehow suffer. “It’s Venus,” exclaimed Julius under his breath. “She’s in the ascendant too. That’s the luck of the gods, isn’t it?” I whispered something in reply, wondering dimly what Goldie might think. “You bang the bath softly for the sound,” said he, “while I hold it up for you. We _may_ hit the right note--the vibrations that fit in with the rate of the light, I mean--though it’s a bit of a chance, I suppose!” I obeyed, thinking of masters sleeping down below in the silent building. “Louder!” exclaimed Julius peremptorily. I obeyed again, with a dismal result resembling tin cans in orgy. And the same minute the good-natured and studious Goldingham awoke with a start and stretched out a hand for his glasses. “Feel anything unusual, Goldie?” asked LeVallon at once, tremendously in earnest, as he lowered the tin bath. “Oh, it’s only _you!_” exclaimed the victim, awakened out of his first sleep and blinking in the gloom, “and _you!_” he added, catching sight of me, my fist still upraised to beat; “rotten brutes, both of you! You _might_ let a fellow sleep a bit. You know I’m swotting up for an exam.!” “But do you _feel_ anything, Goldie?” insisted LeVallon, as though it were a matter of life and death. “It was Venus, you know....” “Was it?” spluttered the other, catching sight of the big bath between him and the open window. “Well, Venus is beastly cold. Who opened the window?” The sight of the bath apparently unnerved him. He hardly expected it before seven in the morning. Further explanations were cut short by the sudden collapse of the mirror with a crash of splintering glass upon the floor. The noise of the bath, that pinged and boomed as I balanced it against the bed, completed the uproar. Then the door opened, and there stood--Martin. It was an awkward moment. Yet it was not half as real, half as vivid, half as alive with the emotion of actual life, as that other memory so recently vanished. Martin, at first, seemed the dream; that other, the reality. He entered with a lighted candle. The noise of the opening window and the footsteps had, no doubt, disturbed him for some time. Yet, quickly as he came, Goldie and I were “asleep” even before he had time to cross the threshold. Julius stood alone to face him in the middle of the floor. It was characteristic of the boy. He never shirked. “What’s the meaning of all this noise?” asked Martin, obviously pleased to find himself in a position of unexpected advantage. “LeVallon, why are you not in bed? And why is the window open?”