"The old yarn of hibernating folks," the Scotsman said, his eyes alight
with tolerant amusement.

"Just that. Only, it's no--yarn."

Steve had no responsive smile. His eyes were serious with a conviction
that promptly changed the other's attitude. He searched an inner pocket
and drew forth a neatly tied packet. This he unfastened while the other
watched him curiously.

The wrappings removed, a bunch of something that looked rather like
dried seaweed lay revealed. And a curious sweet odour made itself
apparent on the still air.

Steve passed it across to his companion without comment. And Ross took
it, and, for some thoughtful moments, sat gazing upon the strange
product of the hidden Unaga. Then he gingerly picked up some of the
shrivelled weed for a closer examination, and, a moment later, pressed
it against his nose and inhaled deeply. As he did so, Steve, watching
him, beheld a sudden excited lighting of his eyes.

"You know it, Doc," he said. "I don't need to ask."

Steve spoke quite quietly, and the other continued to contemplate the
stuff in the intent, absorbed fashion of a suddenly startled scientific
mind. At last he withdrew his fascinated gaze.

"'Adresol!'" he exclaimed. And his tone was thrilling with the joy of
the enthusiast.

"Yes."

"You knew it?"

The Scotsman's sharp question was accompanied by the searching of
astonished eyes.

"Sure."

Ross made no attempt to return the weed. It seemed as though he found it
impossible to deny its fascination.

"Tell me about it," he said, fingering the stuff with the tenderness of
an artist contemplating some precious work of delicate craftsmanship.

"It's the key to the hibernating yarn," Steve said. "Yes, I need to hand
it you all. That way you'll understand the things I've got in my mind."

It was a long enough story. Steve was anxious that nothing should be
omitted that could convince the only man who could assist him in
carrying out his plans. Sunset had nearly faded out of the sky by the
time it was finished. He told everything as he knew it both from An-ina
and the mother of Marcel. Also that which he had learned first hand, and
from the diaries of Marcel Brand. The story of the dead chemist who had
abandoned everything, even life itself, in the pursuit of the elusive
weed lost nothing from his wide sympathy. And the crude use of the drug
by the Indians formed a picture full of colour and romance.

Ross absorbed it all, and wonder and