But Chilcote's gaze had wandered from his face and strayed to the dressing-table; there it moved feverishly from one object to another. “Loder,” he exclaimed, “do you see--can you see if there's a tube of tabloids on the mantel-shelf--or on the dressing-table?” He lifted himself nervously on his elbow and his eyes wandered uneasily about the room. “I--I had a beastly night; my nerves are horribly jarred; and I thought--I think--” He stopped. With his increasing consciousness his nervous collapse became more marked. At the first moment of waking, the relief of an unexpected presence had surmounted everything else; but now, as one by one his faculties stirred, his wretched condition became patent. With a new sense of perturbation Loder made his next attack. “Chilcote--” he began, sternly. But again Chilcote caught his arm, plucking at the coat-sleeve. “Where is it?” he said. “Where is the tube of tabloids--the sedative? I'm--I'm obliged to take something when my nerves go wrong--” In his weakness and nervous tremor he forgot that Loder was the sharer of his secret. Even in his extremity his fear of detection clung to him limply--the lies that had become second nature slipped from him without effort. Then suddenly a fresh panic seized him; his fingers tightened spasmodically, his eyes ceased to rove about the room and settled on his companion's face. “Can you see it, Loder?” he cried. “I can't--the light's in my eyes. Can you see it? Can you see the tube?” He lifted himself higher, an agony of apprehension in his face. Loder pushed him back upon the pillow. He was striving hard to keep his own mind cool, to steer his own course straight through the chaos that confronted him. “Chilcote,” he began once more, “you sent for me last night, and I came the first thing this morning to tell you--” But there he stopped. With an excitement that lent him strength, Chilcote pushed aside his hands. “God!” he said, suddenly, “suppose 'twas lost--suppose 'twas gone!” The imaginary possibility gripped him. He sat up, his face livid, drops of perspiration showing on his forehead, his whole shattered system trembling before his thought. At the sight, Loder set his lips. “The tube is on the mantel-shelf,” he said, in a cold, abrupt voice. A groan of relief fell from Chilcote and the muscles of his face relaxed. For a moment he lay back with closed eyes; then the desire that tortured him stirred afresh. He lifted his eyelids and looked at his companion. “Hand it to me,” he said, quickly. “Give it to me. Give it to me, Loder. Quick as you can! There's a glass on the table and some whiskey and water. The tabloids dissolve, you know--” In his new excitement he held out his hand. But Loder stayed motionless. He had come to fight, to demand, to plead--if need be--for the one hour for which he had lived; the hour that was to satisfy all labor, all endeavor, all ambition. With dogged persistence he made one more essay.