"Myth your eye!" retorted Ole Luk Oie savagely. "Do I look like a myth?" He did not. He looked most solid, most substantial, sturdy arms akimbo on his firmly planted thighs, eyes flashing indignation. "And that reminds me, how can you see me? I'm invisible, you know."
"N-not to me," quavered Peter Pettigrew.
"That," frowned Ole Luk Oie, "is obvious. But—Ah! Those dark things you're wearing over your eyes? What do you call them?"
"They—they're special glasses," said Peter meekly, "to cut down ultra-violet radiation."
"So that's it?" Ole Luk Oie nodded sagely. "Now it begins to make sense. We're in the infra-red, you know. All of us immortals. And you humans have been leading us a merry chase ever since your scientists discovered how to photograph our wave-length. Snapping our pictures at seances—"
"Spirit photography!" exclaimed Peter. "Then—then it's not a fake? You do sometimes communicate—?"
"Now, don't get ideas, mortal! Yes, we do; but just for a gag. We never really tell anything. We don't want you jerks muscling in on our world and messing it up like yours.
"So the glasses let you see me. And the dream-sands didn't work because you're wearing that mask. Well—take it off!"
"Off?" repeated Peter. "Certainly not!"
The little man frowned impatiently.