“Light that goes back to its source,” muttered Nightspore.

“And what kind of light would that be?”

Nightspore seemed unwilling to answer, but, finding Maskull’s eyes still fixed on him, he brought out:  “Unless light pulled, as well as pushed, how would flowers contrive to twist their heads around after the sun?”

“I don’t know.  But the point is, what are these bottles for?”

While he was still talking, with his hand on the smaller bottle, the other, which was lying on its side, accidentally rolled over in such a manner that the metal caught against the table.  He made a movement to stop it, his hand was actually descending, when—­the bottle suddenly disappeared before his eyes.  It had not rolled off the table, but had really vanished—­it was nowhere at all.

Maskull stared at the table.  After a minute he raised his brows, and turned to Nightspore with a smile.  “The message grows more intricate.”

Nightspore looked bored.  “The valve became unfastened.  The contents have escaped through the open window toward the sun, carrying the bottle with them.  But the bottle will be burned up by the earth’s atmosphere, and the contents will dissipate, and will not reach the sun.”

Maskull listened attentively, and his smile faded.  “Does anything prevent us from experimenting with this other bottle?”

“Replace it in the cupboard,” said Nightspore.  “Arcturus is still below the horizon, and you would succeed only in wrecking the house.”

Maskull remained standing before the window, pensively gazing out at the sunlit moors.

“Krag treats me like a child,” he remarked presently.  “And perhaps I really am a child....  My cynicism must seem most amusing to Krag.  But why does he leave me to find out all this by myself—­for I don’t include you, Nightspore....  But what time will Krag be here?”

“Not before dark, I expect,” his friend replied.

Chapter 4

THE VOICE

It was by this time past three o’clock.  Feeling hungry, for they had eaten nothing since early morning, Maskull went downstairs to forage, but without much hope of finding anything in the shape of food.  In a safe in the kitchen he discovered a bag of mouldy oatmeal, which was untouchable, a quantity of quite good tea in an airtight caddy, and an unopened can of ox tongue.  Best of all, in the dining-room cupboard he came across an uncorked bottle of first-class Scotch whisky.  He at once made preparations for a scratch meal.

A pump in the yard ran clear after a good deal of hard working at it, and he washed out and filled the antique kettle.  For firewood, one of the kitchen chairs was broken up with a chopper.  The light, dusty wood made a good blaze in the grate, the kettle was boiled, and cups were procured and washed.  Ten minutes later the friends were dining in the library.