For reasons of my own, I was deeply interested in Marconi experiments at their outset in England; and it was of a piece with Mr. Cashell’s unvarying thoughtfulness that, when his nephew the electrician appropriated the house for a long-range installation, he should, as I have said, invite me to see the result. The old lady went away with her medicine, and Mr. Shaynor and I stamped on the tiled floor behind the counter to keep ourselves warm. The shop, by the light of the many electrics, looked like a Paris-diamond mine, for Mr. Cashell believed in all the ritual of his craft. Three superb glass jars—red, green, and blue—of the sort that led Rosamund to parting with her shoes—blazed in the broad plate-glass windows, and there was a confused smell of orris, Kodak films, vulcanite, tooth-powder, sachets, and almond-cream in the air. Mr. Shaynor fed the dispensary stove, and we sucked cayenne-pepper jujubes and menthol lozenges. The brutal east wind had cleared the streets, and the few passers-by were muffled to their puckered eyes. In the Italian warehouse next door some gay feathered birds and game, hung upon hooks, sagged to the wind across the left edge of our window-frame. “They ought to take these poultry in—all knocked about like that,” said Mr. Shaynor. “Doesn’t it make you feel fair perishing? See that old hare! The wind’s nearly blowing the fur off him.” I saw the belly-fur of the dead beast blown apart in ridges and streaks as the wind caught it, showing bluish skin underneath. “Bitter cold,” said Mr. Shaynor, shuddering. “Fancy going out on a night like this! Oh, here’s young Mr. Cashell.” The door of the inner office behind the dispensary opened, and an energetic, spade-bearded man stepped forth, rubbing his hands. “I want a bit of tin-foil, Shaynor,” he said. “Good-evening. My uncle told me you might be coming.” This to me, as I began the first of a hundred questions. “I’ve everything in order,” he replied. “We’re only waiting until Poole calls us up. Excuse me a minute. You can come in whenever you like—but I’d better be with the instruments. Give me that tin-foil. Thanks.” While we were talking, a girl—evidently no customer—had come into the shop, and the face and bearing of Mr. Shaynor changed. She leaned confidently across the counter. “But I can’t,” I heard him whisper uneasily—the flush on his cheek was dull red, and his eyes shone like a drugged moth’s. “I can’t. I tell you I’m alone in the place.” “No, you aren’t. Who’s _that_? Let him look after it for half an hour. A brisk walk will do you good. Ah, come now, John.” “But he isn’t——” “I don’t care. I want you to; we’ll only go round by St. Agnes. If you don’t——” He crossed to where I stood in the shadow of the dispensary counter, and began some sort of broken apology about a lady-friend. “Yes,” she interrupted. “You take the shop for half an hour—to oblige _me_, won’t you?” She had a singularly rich and promising voice that well matched her outline.