If the _Peary_, as is generally thought, is trapped beneath the ice floes or embedded in the deep silt of the polar sea-floor, her margin of safety has passed the deadline, it was pointed out to-day by her designers. Through special rectifiers aboard, her store of air can be kept capable of sustaining life for a theoretical period of thirty-one days. And exactly thirty-one days have now elapsed since last the _Peary's_ radio was heard from a position 72 deg. 47' N, 162 deg. 22' W, some twelve hundred miles from the North Pole itself. In official circles, hope was practically abandoned for the missing submarine, though attempts will continue to be made to locate her.... "I'm sorry, Mr. Torrance," said the attendant nervously. "This paper should--" "Should never have reached me, eh? Through some slip of the people who censor my reading matter here, I read what I wasn't supposed to--that's what you mean?" "It was thought better, Mr. Torrance, by the doctors, and--" "Good God! Thought better! Through their sagacity, these doctors have probably condemned the men on this submarine to death! I haven't heard a word about the expedition; didn't even know the _Peary_ was up there, much less missing!" "Well, Mr. Torrance," the attendant stammered, more and more unsettled, "the doctors thought that--that any news about it would--well, upset you." The young man laughed bitterly; "Bring on my old 'trouble,' I suppose. The doctors have been considerate, but I won't concern them any more. I'm through. I'm leaving for the north--right now. There's a bare chance I might still be in time." "I'm sorry, Mr. Torrance, but you can't." "Can't?" The attendant had retreated to the door. His eyes were nervous, his face pale. "It's orders, Mr. Torrance. You've been under observation treatment, and the doctors left strict orders that you must stay." The young man throbbed with dangerous anger. His hands clenched and unclenched. He burst out, in a last attempt at reason: "But don't you see, I've _got_ to get to the _Peary_! It's the last hope for those men! The position she was last heard from is right where I--" "You can't leave, Mr. Torrance! I'm sorry, but I'll have to call a guard!" For a minute their eyes held. With an effort, the young man said more calmly: "I see. I see. I'm a prisoner. All right, leave me." The attendant was more than willing. The young man heard the door's lock click. And then he lowered his head and pressed his hands hard into his face. But a second later he was looking up again, at the single wide window which gave out on the lonely landscape over which sometimes came drifting the distant cry of a train's whistle. * * * * *