the doorway as he who had carried
her back to the room.

There was a strangeness in his bearing which made her uneasy, a certain
subdued hilarity which suggested drunkenness.

"Don't make a noise," he whispered with a stifled chuckle, "if Gregory
hears he'll raise fire."

She saw that the key was in the lock on the outside of the door and this
she watched. But he made no attempt to withdraw it and closed the door
behind him softly.

"My name is Bridgers," he whispered, "van Heerden has told you about
me--Horace Bridgers, do you----?"

He took a little tortoiseshell box from the pocket of his frayed
waistcoat and opened it with a little kick of his middle finger. It was
half-full of white powder that glittered in a stray ray of sunlight.
"Try a sniff," he begged eagerly, "and all your troubles will
go--phutt!"

"Thank you, no"--she shook her head, looking at him with a perplexed
smile--"I don't know what it is."

"It's the white terror," he chuckled again, "better than the green--not
so horribly musty as the green, eh?"

"I'm not in the mood for terrors of any kind," she said, with a
half-smile. She wondered why he had come, and had a momentary hope that
he was ignorant of van Heerden's character.

"All right"--he stuffed the box back into his waistcoat
pocket--"_you're_ the loser, you'll never find heaven on earth!"

She waited.

All the time he was speaking, it seemed to her that he was on the _qui
vive_ for some interruption from below. He would stop in his speech to
turn a listening ear to the door. Moreover, she was relieved to see he
made no attempt to advance any farther into the room. That he was under
the influence of some drug she guessed. His eyes glittered with
unnatural brilliance, his hands, discoloured and uncleanly, moved
nervously and were never still.

"I'm Bridgers," he said again. "I'm van Heerden's best man--rather a
come down for the best analytical chemist that the school ever turned
out, eh? Doing odd jobs for a dirty Deutscher!" He walked to the door,
opened it and listened, then tiptoed across the room to her.

"You know," he whispered, "you're van Heerden's girl--what is the game?"

"What is----?" she stammered.

"What is the game? What is it all about? I've tried to pump Gregory and
Milsom, but they're mysterious. Curse all mysteries, my dear. What is
the game? Why are they sending men to America, Canada, Australia and
India? Come along and be a pal! Tell me! I've seen the