The room had a sleepless, jaded air--the room that under his own occupation had shown a rigid, almost monastic severity. The plain dressing-table was littered with cigarette ends and marked with black and tawny patches where the tobacco had been left to burn itself out. On one corner of the table a carafe of water and a whiskey-decanter rested one against the other, as if for support, and at the other end an overturned tumbler lay in a pool of liquid. The whole effect was sickly and nauseating. His glance turned involuntarily to the bed, and there halted. On the hard, narrow mattress, from which the sheets and blankets had fallen in a disordered heap, lay Chilcote. He was fully dressed in a shabby tweed suit of Loder's; his collar was open, his lip and chin unshaven; one hand was limply grasping the pillow, while the other hung out over the side of the bed. His face, pale, almost earthy in hue, might have been a mask, save for the slight convulsive spasms that crossed it from time to time, and corresponded with the faint, shivering starts that passed at intervals over his whole body. To complete his repellent appearance, a lock of hair had fallen loose and lay black and damp across his forehead. Loder stood for a space shocked and spellbound by the sight. Even in the ghastly disarray, the likeness--the extraordinary, sinister likeness that had become the pivot upon which he himself revolved--struck him like a blow. The man who lay there was himself-bound to him by some subtle, inexplicable tie of similarity. As the idea touched him he turned aside and stepped quickly to the dressing-table; there, with unnecessary energy, he flung back the curtains and threw the window wide; then again he turned towards the bed. He had one dominant impulse--to waken Chilcote, to be free of the repulsive, inert presence that chilled him with so personal a horror. Leaning over the bed, he caught the shoulder nearest to him and shook it. It was not the moment for niceties, and his gesture was rough. At his first touch Chilcote made no response--his brain, dulled by indulgence in his vice, had become a laggard in conveying sensations; but at last, as the pressure on his shoulder increased, his nervous system seemed suddenly to jar into consciousness. A long shudder shook him; he half lifted himself and then dropped back upon the pillow. “Oh!” he exclaimed, in a trembling breath. “Oh!” The sound seemed drawn from him by compulsion. Its uncanny tone chilled Loder anew. “Wake up, man!” he said, suddenly. “Wake up! It's I--Loder.” Again the other shuddered; then he turned quickly and nervously. “Loder?” he said, doubtfully. “Loder?” Then his face changed. “Good God!” he exclaimed, “what a relief!” The words were so intense, so spontaneous and unexpected, that Loder took a step back. Chilcote laughed discordantly, and lifted a shaky hand to protect his eyes from the light.