Put into the balance in Storm's favour that in the last seventy-two hours he had had less than seven hours' sleep, and perhaps you will understand and forgive him for plumbing such abysses of despair. And that spineless despondency was only momentary. Before it could consolidate the position it had gained, Storm hurled up every supporting mote of fighting weight that was in him to hold the breach. With a clinched effort of will which racked and locked his nerves in positive physical anguish he focused all his strength upon the one object of getting his mind and body back to par. His face remained inscrutable and all his muscles were relaxed, but the sweat broke out in glistening gouts on his forehead. And, gradually, inch by painful inch, he scourged himself into cool, calm reason. Watching him, few would have known that in the fleeting of those few seconds he had gone down into Inferno and dragged himself back again into the world. Storm raised his eyes. His hand went slowly to his pocket and drew out his cigarette-case. With leisured care he selected a cigarette, tapped it on his thumb-nail, and put it between his lips. Still with the same Alpine steadiness, he took a box of matches from his pocket, struck a light, and held it to the cigarette. He extinguished the match with one flourishing sweep of his hand and broke it into little tiny splinters, dropping them one by one on to the carpet. And then, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his hands cupped boyishly under his chin, he took the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a long blue trail of smoke. "Yes?" he prompted, and his voice was as coldly level as a frozen tarn. Terry fastidiously preserved the cone of ash that was accumulating on his cigar. "Well, I offered to go with Susan, but she wanted to go alone. Still, I'd gathered from the Robert's not very snappy backchat that you were more or less lyin' on the banks of the Styx waitin' for the ferry; so, for the sake of old times, after allowin' Susan half an hour's start to get through the last fond farewell"--Terry grinned wryly--"I tottered along myself. Had the jolly old Sisters of Mercy heard of Captain Arden? They had not. Had the worthy chirurgeons? _Non plus_. I combed every ward myself, and when we hadn't located you I remembered the Triangle's interest in Susan and began to get a whiff of _Mus decumanus_, or the common rat. Toddlin' round to Scotland Yard, I was told you'd just left on a morgue tour along the Embankment. So I came toolin' on here to wait for you. _Et voila!_" "I see," said Storm. "Can you get me some real eighty-over-proof dope? Snow for preference. I'm about done in, and my acquaintance with rest cures looks like being not yet." Terry looked at him for a moment, and then nodded. "I'll knock up a chemist myself," he promised. "But you'll try to get some sleep, won't you? Tumblin' into the arms of Morpheus, and so forth?" Kit nodded.