The curve and the limit of each individual varied, were affected by conditions—physical, mental, and sexual, conditions of heredity and conditions of pre-war environment. But of one thing, Heron Baynet already held the absolute certainty:—The superman, as preached by German philosophers, did not exist. Every human individuality possessed its breaking-strain, the point beyond which will-power could not force either the body or the brain. Any attempt to pass that “limit of human endurance” must be foredoomed to failure. And it seemed to Heron Baynet, sitting alone after the two had gone to bed, that he could already detect from certain tones in his son-in-law’s voice, from the way his conversation ran from one topic to another, from the whole atmosphere his personality exuded, that Peter Jameson had already abandoned the flat level of the normal, begun the slow climb up that curve of endurance which must lead eventually to breaking point. . . . PART TWENTY-ONE THE DROSS AND THE GOLD § 1 Despite his father-in-law’s diagnosis, there was no sign of overstrain about the quiet young fellow in mufti who sat talking figures in George Reid’s stuffy private office, the morning after his arrival in England. One by one, Peter marshalled his facts; laid them before the middle-aged clean-shaven man at the paper-littered desk. “But are you sure you can find a buyer?” said Reid at last. “It all seems to hang on that.” “You can always sell things—at a price,” answered Peter. “The only trouble is _time_. One can’t conclude a deal like this in under a week. That’s where I want _your_ help. If I start the negotiations, will you carry them through? Of course, you must name your own fee.” “I don’t take fees for helping people in the Army,” said Reid. “But that’s ridiculous. You’re not here for your health.” “Ridiculous or not, I won’t take any fee.” There was something very near emotion in the accountant’s voice. “You can pay for having the accounts audited if you like. But beyond that, not a farthing. Hang it all, when you fellows are risking your lives, the least we old ’uns can do is to see after affairs at home for you.” “It’s damn decent of you,” said Peter, “but all the same, I don’t like accepting favours.” “Favours be blowed.” Reid lit himself a cigarette. “Let’s get down to facts. First point: Are you quite sure it’s necessary to sell?” “Quite.” “Why? The business is perfectly solvent.” “Because I happen to be in the Army.” “Some one could run it while you’re away.” “It isn’t that”—Peter spoke coldly, impersonally—“but if anything happened to me there’d be the whole tangle over again. Whereas, if I can get my fourteen thousand out, that _and_ the insurance money, at five per cent. . . .” “Very well,” interrupted Reid. “I follow you. Point two: Who’s your buyer?”