And Joan would be happy, because she would have saved Blandford; and Baxter, damn him, he would be happy; and the whole blessed outfit would be happy as well as him when he had just dropped on to sleep. . . . He would never have done as a husband for Margaret; the idea was ridiculous. Imagine sitting down and writing a book, while she took the pennies at the door--or did he have to take the pennies? Anyway, this settled the matter, and saved him the trouble of explanation. He loathed explanations; all he wanted was peace and quiet and rest. . . . What a farce it all was; man thinking he could struggle against science. Science ruled the universe--aeroplanes, gas, torpedoes. And it served men right for inventing them; they should have been more careful. The smile on the dead German airman's face, as he lay on the ground near Poperinghe, floated before him, and he nodded his head portentously. "You're right, old bean," he croaked. "The man I want to meet is the fool who doesn't think it's funny . . . ." And then Vane crossed the Valley of the Shadow, as far as a man may cross and yet return. Strange figures crowded around him hemming him in on every side. The Boche whose brains he had blown out near Arras was there with his shattered skull, holding out a hand of greeting--and Baxter, grinning sardonically. Margaret--with a wealth of pity and love shining on her face, and Joan with her grey eyes faintly mocking . . . . And his tailor with the wart on his nose, and Mrs. Green, and Binks. . . . They were all there, and then gradually they faded into the great darkness. . . . Everything was growing still, and peaceful--the rest he wanted had come. Then suddenly they came back again--the Boche and Baxter and the rest of them--and started pulling him about. He cursed and swore at them, but they paid no heed; and soon the agony he was suffering became almost unbearable. In God's name, why could not they leave him alone? . . . He raved at them, and sobbed, but it was of no avail. They went on inexorably and the creaking of the oars in the rowlocks of the boat that had picked him up seemed to him to be the creaking of his arms and legs. . . . CHAPTER XVIII When Vane opened his eyes on reality again, he found himself in a strange room. For a few moments he lay very still, groping back into a half-world of grey shadows. He remembered the first torpedo, and then the second one; but after that things seemed confused. A man opened the door, and came over to his bed. "Feeling better?" he remarked with a smile. "As far as I can make out at the moment," said Vane, "I'm feeling perfectly well. Where am I, and what happened? . . ." "You're in a private hospital not far from Liverpool," answered the man. "You were very nearly drowned in the 'Connaught,' and you've had a nasty knock on the head as well. . . . Feel at all muzzy now?" "Not a bit," said Vane, raising himself on his elbow. "I hope they caught the swine."