"Yes. Drugged tobacco:--opium, a good strong mixture," the other answered bluntly. "You may as well have it straight. You're an understanding fellow; and no Pharisee." Then, in a few clipped sentences, he stated the bald facts of the case, culminating in his discovery of the previous night. He leaned forward in speaking; elbows on knees; eyes averted from the other's face. "You see, it's in the blood,--that's the hell of it all," he concluded fiercely. "This morning, when I'd had my fill of thinking things out, I took a stiff dose of chlorodyne. Smashed the bottle afterwards, in disgust. But where's the use? The dice are loaded: and no doubt one will be driven back to it again, sooner or later." Words and tone betrayed the dread note of fatalism--the moral microbe of the East. But men of Theo Desmond's calibre rarely succumb to its paralysing influence. "Look here, Lenox,"--he spoke almost brusquely,--"you must get quit of that notion. No man worth his salt goes to meet failure half-way. I grant you're on the edge of an ugly pit, and if you insist on peering into it, your chance is gone. All you have to do is to shut your eyes, and hang to the reins like the very deuce; if it's only for the sake of--your wife. Honor told me about her," he added, with more gentleness. But Lenox threw up his head impatiently. "My wife?" he repeated on a note of concentrated bitterness. "The greatest kindness I could do her would be to plunge wholesale into the pit, and give her back the freedom she wants. A man with a taint in his blood has no business to beget children foredoomed to fight--and lose." "My good chap," Desmond broke in hotly. "I'll never believe that any living soul is foredoomed to lose. The chance of a fight, no matter how heavy the odds, includes the chance of victory. And even if things do look a bit hopeless for a time, our orders are plain and straight; 'No surrender.'" Lenox searched his face. "Ever been through the fire yourself?" Desmond nodded. "I suppose moat of us have to go through hell once or twice," he said quietly. "And I know how it feels to wish that some one would lock up my revolver." For answer Lenox got up and paced the room, head down; hands plunged deep into trouser-pockets; lost, by now, to all sense of his incongruous appearance. The other watched him thoughtfully. Then his hand went to his breast-pocket, and drew out a leather case. A man proffers tobacco to a friend in trouble as instinctively as a woman proffers a caress. "Have a cheroot?" he said, holding them out: and Lenox checked his pacing. "Thanks,--no. I've no taste for 'em. Never had."