He chafed his hands and arms with brandy; took off his boots
and chafed his feet. He succeeded in getting a certain warmth into
him, and into himself too. He began to be hopeful.

"I think I shall pull you through," he told him. "You ought to be a
pretty hard case. I suppose you don't know how you came to fall so
badly."

"Well, I do," Urquhart said.

"Don't tell me if you'd rather not."

"Oh, what does it matter now? It was a whim."

James smiled. "Another whim?"

"Yes--and another fiasco. You see, in a way, I had dared you to come."

"I admit that."

"Well, I hadn't played fair. I knew, and you didn't, that it was a bad
job. You can't get down this way--not when the snow's like this."

"Oh, can't you?"

"I think not. Well, I ought to have told you. I was tempted. That's
the worst thing I ever did. I ask your pardon for that."

"You have it, old chap," said James.

"You can afford to be magnanimous," Urquhart snapped out fiercely.
"Damn it, you have everything. But I felt badly about it as I was
going down, and I thought, 'They'll feel the break, and know it's all
over. So I cut the painter--do you see?"

"Yes," said James, "I see." He did indeed see.

Urquhart began to grow drowsy and to resent interference. He was too
far gone to think of anything but the moment's ease. James, on the
other hand, was entirely absorbed in his patient. "I'm not going to
let you sleep," he said. "It's no good making a fuss. I've got the
kinch on you now." It was as much as he had. The air was biting cold,
and the colder it got the more insistent on sleep Urquhart became.

James stared about him. Was this the world that he knew? Were kindly
creatures moving about somewhere in it, helping each other? Was Lucy
in this place? Had she lain against his heart two nights ago? Had he
been so blessed? Had life slipped by--and was this the end? Which was
the reality, and which the dream? If both had been real, and this was
the end of men's endeavour--if this were death--if one slipped out in
this cur's way, the tail between the legs--why not end it? He could
sleep himself, he thought. Suppose he lay by this brother cur of his
and slept? Somewhere out beyond this cold there were men by firelight
kissing their wives. Poor chaps, they didn't know the end. This was
the end--loneliness and cold. Yes, but you could sleep!...

* * * * *

Suddenly he started, intent and quivering. He had heard a cry. Ever