"I call that 'sand,'" he said quietly. "Captain Arden, you have my very best wishes. I'm--scared of that Triangle. It's got me jumpy--that's honest." He had relapsed into his old jerky style. "It's bigger than I ever dreamed such a thing could be. Queer thing: sometimes I don't care, sometimes I wish I could speak. Probably you'll be killed; sometimes I'm sorry, sometimes it doesn't seem to matter. Yet I like you extraordinarily. Look an easy man to frighten?" Storm viewed the splendid physique, seemingly unimpaired by age, and his glance wandered to the masterful poise of the big head on the broad shoulders. He smiled as he shook his head. "I'm afraid," said Lord Hannassay with a grim matter-of-factness that was more startling than any emotional outburst. "Is that serious?" Storm asked incredulously, and Hannassay nodded. "Same as you--I'd like to be out of it. Sooner or later, I think, I'll have to pay for my knowledge of it. And yet, if I placed that knowledge at your disposal, even on your assurance that it would go no further, I should be little better off. The Triangle is supremely callous--you understand that, Captain Arden? A human life--half a dozen, if you like--_that_!" He snapped his fingers contemptuously. Storm concentrated on blowing three smoke rings interlinked with accurate symmetry. "Who is Bulsaid?" he asked carelessly. He had expected to create a sensation, and in this he was not disappointed. Hannassay froze into a rock-like immobility. His pale blue eyes were like chips of ice, brittle and glistening. "Bulsaid," he whispered. "Bulsaid--the man who was supplanted by Joe Blaythwayt at school, whose mean little soul conceived even at that age an undying hatred of those who passed him in the race. Bulsaid, the man whom Sir John Marker beat at the Clayston bye-election in March, 1897. Bulsaid, the scientist whose seriousness and anarchical views caused him to be ragged rather unmercifully at Oxford, particularly by a man named James Mattock--a man of good family but with too much money, a popular, noisy, carefree youngster whom Bulsaid came to add to the list of enemies his warped mind never forgot. Bulsaid, the man who has you, Lord Hannassay, in his clutches, and who will perhaps never let you go. Bulsaid, the brilliant scholar, the fanatic, the unforgiving hater, the embittered, half-mad genius--Hugo Arden Bulsaid, my father!" The Under Secretary said nothing, but the ramrod set of his giant frame was now only superficial, for Storm saw that the whole man was vibrant with tiny tremors. Every line on that stern, dominant face was graven deeper and sterner, and little chips of hot steel glinted behind the icy blue eyes. "Hugo Arden Bulsaid," said Storm slowly, "the man who made Oscar Raegenssen, and who will break him; the man who'll kill me one day, if I don't kill him!" "So you know," breathed Hannassay. "And I needn't have been so secretive about my knowledge."