hinges, I don't know; but one day
the Professor, of his own initiative, recognised my existence by lugging
his box out in the open and asking me to fix it. Previously he had emptied
it. It was rather a complicated thing, with an inner compartment over
which was a hollow cover, opening along one rim. That, I conjectured, was
designed to hold some chemical compound or salt. There were many minor
openings, too, each guarded by a similar hollow door. My business was with
the heavy top cover.

"'It should shut and open softly, gently,' explained the Professor. 'So.
Not with-a-grating-sound-to-be-accompanied,' he added, with his curious
effect of linked phraseology.

"Half a day's work fixed it. The lid would stand open of itself until
tipped at a considerable angle, when it would fall and lock. Only on the
outer shell was there a lock: that one was a good bit of craftsmanship.

"'So, Percy, my boy,' said the doctor kindly. 'That will with-sufficient-
safety guard our treasure. When we obtain it, Percy. When it entirely-
finished-and-completed shall be.'

"'And when will that be?' I asked.

"'God knows,' he said cheerfully. 'It progresses.'

"Whenever I went strolling at night, he would produce his curious lights.
Sometimes they were fairly startling. One fact I made out by accident,
looking down from a high place. They did not project from the laboratory.
He always worked in the open when the light was to be produced. Once the
experiment took a serious turn. The lights had flickered and gone. Dr.
Schermerhorn had returned to his laboratory. I came up the arroyo as he
flung the door open and rushed out. He was a grotesque figure, clad in an
undershirt and a worn pair of trousers, fastened with an old bit of tarred
rope in lieu of his suspenders, which I had been repairing. About his
waist flickered a sort of aura of radiance which was extinguished as he
flung himself headforemost into the cold spring. I hauled him out. He
seemed dazed. To my questions he replied only by mumblings, the burden of
which was:

"'I do not understand. It is a not-to-be-comprehended accident.' It
appears that he didn't quite know why he had taken to the water. Or if he
did, he didn't want to tell.

"Next day he was as good as new. Just as silent as before, but it was a
smiling, satisfied silence. So it went for weeks, for months, with the
accesses of depression and anger always rarer. Then came an afternoon
when, returning from a stalk afte