Dead. He realized it with a terror he had never known on earth, a helpless, unreasoning panic which fluttered and struggled and strained like the wings of a frantic bird. The commissionaire in the hall—the men who went through the door just ahead of him—Denby crossing the marble floor towards the lounge—none of them had known he was there. They couldn’t see him. They couldn’t hear him. He was cut off from them forever— disembodied—invisible—exiled. Dead.

Slowly, in surroundings so entirely sane, his own scattered sanity reasserted itself. Slowly he emerged from terror and looked about him, taking stock. He had come back. He had longed to come, and here he was. Why? Was a dying man’s prayer always answered? Could a man in his last moments make his own hereafter? And while he stood there among them, feeling quite himself, not dreaming after all, he heard them saying that he had been buried at Peshawur.

Slowly the freakish humor of it began to reach him. Somebody, somewhere, had done it on him. He had asked, and it had been given. Was there laughter in heaven? No. No, this could not really be. It was some form of delusion still—fever—nightmare—delirium.... He would prove to himself now, at once, that this thing simply hadn’t happened. He would speak to Denby— and then they would turn to him with incredulous looks, seize his hands, order drinks all round. Or else he would wake in a cold sweat in that narrow white room in Peshawur. Or else....

“What about Dalton?” he demanded, approaching the group round the hearth. “Did they get Dalton back safe?”

“Dalton’s report is coming by air mail,” said Denby. “He’s had rather a bad time. No water where they crashed. But he’ll pull through.”

There, you see? It worked. Denby had heard and answered his question. But no one was looking at him. Must try again. Must prove....

“Did Dalton write my family too?” he asked, and laid his hand on Denby’s shoulder.

He knew then. He had the answer. Denby was shaken by a long shiver, and put a hand to his head.

“Damn,” said Denby apologetically. “I—I need a drink, somebody.”

“Have my brandy, old boy.” Calthorpe thrust a full glass into Denby’s hand and rang the bell. “Steady, now—let’s sit down. We all need a stiff one, I’m thinking.”

That’s funny, thought Hilary. No drink for me.