Garry was limp and blue and pulseless when Steve stretched him out, inside. The second flask stood there where Garry had left it, upon a table, and while he was loosening the latter's clothing Steve shook it, experimentally, and found it empty. He swung it aloft and drove it through a window. The crash of shivered glass made the other stir. He opened his eyes and stared vacantly up into his friend's face. "Steve," he moaned. "Steve, I'm cold!" And that was the burden of the complaints which he lifted, time and again, throughout the first part of the night. Even after Steve had wrapped him in everything which the bare room afforded he still continued to whimper like a sick boy. But his body held strong. Just as, all day, it had been his brain which had shown the effects of the alcohol which he had consumed, so now, all night, it was his brain which suffered most. Again and again he called aloud a woman's name, in a voice which Stephen O'Mara had never before heard from his lips. In inconceivable tenderness he whispered it--the name of Mary Graves--only to cry aloud, "Steve--Steve," in accents of heartbreak the next. Long before morning came his pulse was steady--a little jumpy but reassuringly rhythmic. But the sunlight was two hours old upon the floor before the silent watcher saw the white lids flutter and then part with a gaze that was once more sane. Garry's smile had always been mocking; it was shamed and wistful now. The clearness with which he remembered was a miraculous thing. "You see, Steve," he faltered. "You see now, don't you, that I'm not worth trying to save? Oh, you've tried hard; I knew how hard you were trying! That's why I did--what I did. I'm no good; there's no use, friend of mine. Why don't you let me go?" Steve groped and found the hand groping for his. He nodded his head, bruskly, to hide his eyes. But his voice was not brusk. "I almost shot you, Garry," he said, and there was a husky echo of horror in the words. "In another minute I'd have killed you. Right now I don't know just what kept me from firing." "And I meant you to," Garry murmured almost inaudibly, "I planned that you should--started to plan last night. I--I've been hating you for twelve hours--hating you because you were making me ashamed to do the thing I wanted to do most." He tried to rise and fell back, slack. But his voice was stronger with sudden, swelling bitterness.