heaven meet."

"But they only seem to meet," he reflected to himself, idly. "If I
sailed to that spot they would be as wide apart as ever. Yes, the stars
would be as silent and as far away, and the sea quite as restless and
as salt. Yet there must be a place where they do meet. No, Morris, my
friend, there is no such place in this world, material or moral; so
stick to facts, and leave fancies alone."

But that night this speculative man felt in the mood for fancies, for
presently he was staring at one of the constellations, and saying to
himself, "Why not? Well, why not? Granted force can travel through
ether,--whatever ether is--why should it stop travelling? Give it time
enough, a few seconds, or a few minutes or a few years, and why should
it not reach that star? Very likely it does, only there it wastes
itself. What would be needed to make it serviceable? Simply this--that
on the star there should dwell an Intelligence armed with one of my
instruments, when I have perfected them, or the secret of them. Then
who knows what might happen?" and he laughed a little to himself at the
vagary.

From all of which wandering speculations it may be gathered that Morris
Monk was that rather common yet problematical person, an inventor who
dreamed dreams.

An inventor, in truth, he was, although as yet he had never really
invented anything. Brought up as an electrical engineer, after a very
brief experience of his profession he had fallen victim to an idea and
become a physicist. This was his idea, or the main point of it--for
its details do not in the least concern our history: that by means of