Secretly ashamed of myself, I lay under the sheets, wondering what Julius would answer. “We always sleep with the window open, sir,” he said quietly. “What was that crash I heard?” asked the master, coming farther into the room, and holding the candle aloft so that it showed every particle of the broken glass. “Who did this?” He glanced suspiciously about him, knowing of course that Julius was not the only culprit. LeVallon stood there, looking straight at him. Martin--as I think of the incident to-day--had the appearance of a weasel placed by chance in a position of advantage, yet afraid of its adversary. He winced, yet exulted. “Do you realise that it’s long after eleven,” he observed frigidly, “and that I shall be obliged to report you to Dr. Randall in the morning....” “Yes, sir,” said Julius. “It’s very serious,” continued Martin, more excitedly, and apparently uncertain how to drive home his advantage, “it’s very distressing--er--to find you, LeVallon, Head of the School, guilty of mischief like a Fourth-Form boy--at this hour of the night too!” The reference to the lower form was, of course, intended to be crushing. But Julius in his inimitable way turned the tables astonishingly. “Very good, sir,” he said calmly, “but I was only trying to get the light of Venus, and her sound, into Goldingham’s head--into his system, that is--by reflecting it in the looking-glass; and it fell off the ledge. It’s an experiment of antiquity, as you know, sir. I’m exceedingly sorry....” Martin stared. He was a little afraid of LeVallon; the boy’s knowledge of mathematics had compelled his admiration as often as his questions, sometimes before the whole class, had floored him. “It’s an old experiment,” the boy added, his pale face very grave, “healing, you know, sir, by the rays of the planets--forgotten star-worship--like the light-cures of to-day----” Martin’s somewhat bewildered eye wandered to the flat tin bath still propped against Goldingham’s bedside. “... and using gongs to increase the vibrations,” explained Julius further, noticing the glance. “We were trying to make it do for a gong--the scientists will discover it again before long, sir.” The master hardly knew whether to laugh or scold. He stood there in his shirt-sleeves looking hard at LeVallon who faced him with tumbled hair and shining eyes in his woolly red dressing-gown. Erect, dignified, for all the absurdity of the situation, the flush of his strange enthusiasm emphasising the delicate beauty of his features, I remember feeling that even the stupid Martin must surely understand that there was something rather wonderful about him, and pass himself beneath the spell. “I was the priest,” he said. “But I did the gong--I mean, the bath-part, please sir,” I put in, unable any longer to let Julius bear all the blame.