At the earliest opportunity I went to see his house.  It was large and carelessly furnished; there were no servants other than his three assistants, and his dietary and private life were characterised by a philosophical simplicity.  He was a water-drinker, a vegetarian, and all those logical disciplinary things.  But the sight of his equipment settled many doubts.  It looked like business from cellar to attic—­an amazing little place to find in an out-of-the-way village.  The ground-floor rooms contained benches and apparatus, the bakehouse and scullery boiler had developed into respectable furnaces, dynamos occupied the cellar, and there was a gasometer in the garden.  He showed it to me with all the confiding zest of a man who has been living too much alone.  His seclusion was overflowing now in an excess of confidence, and I had the good luck to be the recipient.

The three assistants were creditable specimens of the class of “handy-men” from which they came.  Conscientious if unintelligent, strong, civil, and willing.  One, Spargus, who did the cooking and all the metal work, had been a sailor; a second, Gibbs, was a joiner; and the third was an ex-jobbing gardener, and now general assistant.  They were the merest labourers.  All the intelligent work was done by Cavor.  Theirs was the darkest ignorance compared even with my muddled impression.

And now, as to the nature of these inquiries.  Here, unhappily, comes a grave difficulty.  I am no scientific expert, and if I were to attempt to set forth in the highly scientific language of Mr. Cavor the aim to which his experiments tended, I am afraid I should confuse not only the reader but myself, and almost certainly I should make some blunder that would bring upon me the mockery of every up-to-date student of mathematical physics in the country.  The best thing I can do therefore is, I think to give my impressions in my own inexact language, without any attempt to wear a garment of knowledge to which I have no claim.

The object of Mr. Cavor’s search was a substance that should be “opaque”—­he used some other word I have forgotten, but “opaque” conveys the idea—­to “all forms of radiant energy.”  “Radiant energy,” he made me understand, was anything like light or heat, or those Rontgen Rays there was so much talk about a year or so ago, or the electric waves of Marconi, or gravitation.  All these things, he said, radiate out from centres, and act on bodies at a distance, whence comes the term “radiant energy.”  Now almost all substances are opaque to some form or other of radiant energy.  Glass, for example, is transparent to light, but much less so to heat, so that it is useful as a fire-screen; and alum is transparent to light, but blocks heat completely.  A solution of iodine in carbon bisulphide, on the other hand, completely blocks light, but is quite transparent to heat.  It will hide a fire from you, but permit all its warmth to reach you.  Metals are not only opaque to light and heat, but also to electrical energy, which passes through both iodine solution and glass almost as though they were not interposed.  And so on.