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failed to convince him; Brad had never, to his knowledge, had a drink in his life.

Now. Ready, now. Down the stairs and across the hall. Ken Kennedy still standing there, staring. "Probably thinks I've gone nuts but I can't stop to explain now—damn this latch, anyway——"

The outside air was very cold, sharply cold, and the wind had teeth to it. Jack bent his head and hurried along, slipping with every step. He thought he had never seen a more horrible night. Black and bleak and lonely. No living thing. No light but the street-lamps, pale pools of bluish white on the dead white snow. No sound but the dirge of the wind and the rattle of ice-coated branches . . . like skeleton fingers applauding. A graveyard night, unspeakably gruesome.

Suddenly he was terrified. Terrified of the night, and of the solitude, and of the errand. He began to tun, and the quick steamy clouds of his breath were laden with fragments of little prayers. "Oh God, don't—don't let it be what I think it is—not Brad—not Brad—oh, this infernal night—God—" He fell, sprawled headlong, picked himself up only to fall again. He had a feeling of futility, a fear that he would never reach the place for which he was headed—that the elements would hold him back forever, and mock him, and make sport of him. "Oh, help me get there."

A train in the distance gave an eerie scream, and perversely, it steadied him. There were people, then, in this world. People asleep in two-tiered rows, behind high walls of swaying green curtains. Safe, and warm, and comfortable. He drew a vicarious warmth and comfort from thought of them. He lifted his head: and laughed into the whipping wind. "Why, it's all