life to preserve it. He turned the pages of the newspaper over mechanically, reading word upon word which held not the slightest meaning. He felt Storch's eyes upon him, drawn, no doubt, by a mixture of subtle doubts and vague appraisals. His thoughts flew to Ginger. What was she doing at this moment? Was there any chance of _her_ failure? For answer another question shaped itself: Had she _ever_ failed? Yet, this time she was beset with dangers. And in his imagination he saw her treading the thin ice of destiny with the same glorified contempt which lured him to the poetical depths of life... And again Monet was at his side... vague, mysterious, impalpable, the essence of things unseen but hoped for, the solved riddle made spirit, the vast patience of eternity realized. And still Storch's restless eyes were fixed upon him. Presently he heard Storch's voice coming to his ears out of a friendly dusk: "It's nine-thirty...I guess we had better be moving." He did not stir at first...he merely sat staring at Storch, very much as a man waking suddenly and not yet alive to the precise details of his environment. "Moving...where?" he finally inquired. Storch crumpled the newspaper in his hand viciously. "Come...you've been dreaming!" he flung out. "That's dangerous!" Fred braced himself in his chair. "I'm not going," he said, quietly. "I've changed my mind!" Storch's mouth widened, not in a smile this time, but in a vicious snarl. He took out a cheap watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and put it back. "It's just twenty-five minutes to ten," he said, quietly. "I'll give you five more minutes." Fred put both his arms upon the cluttered table, leaning forward, as he answered: "Nothing can alter my decision now, Storch... You should have known better than to have counted on one of my sort...In the end, you see, my standards _have_ shackled me." "Counted on your sort!" Storch laughed back, sarcastically. "Do you suppose for one moment that I ever count on anyone?... I like a game of chance ... that's why I chose you. I like to triumph in spite of a poor hand ... and you have been in some ways the poorest deal I've ever risked a play on. But if I'd gotten you I'd have chuckled to my dying day ... even in spite of the fact that it would have shattered all my theories. I catch my fish upon the lowest and highest tides ... slack water never yields much." He was rising to his feet. His face was a placid mask, but his voice dripped venom. Fred matched his movements with equal quiet. "Still you did have hopes for me," Fred threw at him in grim raillery. "I may have been the poorest prospect, but I have been the most uncertain also... You might just as well admit that." He saw Storch's eyes widen at the arrogance of this unexpected thrust. "Slack water is always uncertain," Storch replied, "unless you know which turn in the tide is to follow."