“But what is it?” I asked. “Electricity is out of my beat altogether.”
“Ah, if you knew that you’d know something nobody knows. It’s just It—what we call Electricity, but the magic—the manifestations—the Hertzian waves—are all revealed by this. The coherer, we call it.”
He picked up a glass tube not much thicker than a thermometer, in which, almost touching, were two tiny silver plugs, and between them an infinitesimal pinch of metallic dust. “That’s all,” he said, proudly, as though himself responsible for the wonder. “That is the thing that will reveal to us the Powers—whatever the Powers may be—at work—through space—a long distance away.”
Just then Mr. Shaynor returned alone and stood coughing his heart out on the mat.
“Serves you right for being such a fool,” said young Mr. Cashell, as annoyed as myself at the interruption. “Never mind—we’ve all the night before us to see wonders.”
Shaynor clutched the counter, his handkerchief to his lips. When he brought it away I saw two bright red stains.
“I—I’ve got a bit of a rasped throat from smoking cigarettes,” he panted. “I think I’ll try a cubeb.”
“Better take some of this. I’ve been compounding while you’ve been away.” I handed him the brew.
“’Twon’t make me drunk, will it? I’m almost a teetotaller. My word! That’s grateful and comforting.”
He sat down the empty glass to cough afresh.