“Yes,” he said, slowly. “Yes. It was the excitement of to-night--and the reaction.” XXVI The next morning at eight o'clock, and again without breakfast, Loder covered the distance between Grosvenor Square and Clifford's Inn. He left Chilcote's house hastily--with a haste that only an urgent motive could have driven him to adopt. His steps were quick and uneven as he traversed the intervening streets; his shoulders lacked their decisive pose, and his pale face was marked with shadows beneath the eyes--shadows that bore witness to the sleepless night spent in pacing Chilcote's vast and lonely room. By the curious effect of circumstances the likeness between the two men had never been more significantly marked than on that morning of April 19th, when Loder walked along the pavements crowded with early workers and brisk with insistent news-venders already alive to the value of last night's political crisis. The irony of this last element in the day's concerns came to him fully when one newsboy, more energetic than his fellows, thrust a paper in front of him. “Sensation in the 'Ouse, sir! Speech by Mr. Chilcote! Government defeat!” For a moment Loder stopped and his face reddened. The tide of emotions still ran strong. His hand went instinctively to his pocket; then his lips set. He shook his head and walked on. With the same hard expression about his mouth, he turned into Clifford's Inn, passed through his own doorway, and mounted the stairs. This time there was no milk-can on the threshold of his rooms and the door yielded to his pressure without the need of a key. With a strange sensation of reluctance he walked into the narrow passage and paused, uncertain which room to enter first. As he stood hesitating a voice from the sitting-room settled the question. “Who's there?” it called, irritably. “What do you want?” Without further ceremony the intruder pushed the door open and entered the room. As he did so he drew a quick breath--whether of disappointment or relief it was impossible to say. Whether he had hoped for or dreaded it, Chilcote was conscious. As Loder entered he was sitting by the cheerless grate, the ashes of yesterday's fire showing charred and dreary where the sun touched them. His back was to the light, and about his shoulders was an old plaid rug. Behind him on the table stood a cup, a teapot, and the can of milk; farther off a kettle was set to boil upon a tiny spirit-stove. In all strong situations we are more or less commonplace. Loder's first remark as he glanced round the disordered room seemed strangely inefficient. “Where's Robins?” he asked, in a brusque voice. His mind teemed with big considerations, yet this was his first involuntary question. Chilcote had started at the entrance of his visitor; now he sat staring at him, his hands holding the arms of his chair. “Where's Robins?” Loder asked again.