Again Chilcote's lips parted stammeringly. The apathy caused by physical exhaustion and his recently administered drug was passing from him; the hopelessly shattered condition of mind and body was showing through it like a skeleton through a thin covering of flesh. “But why?” he said again. “Why?” Still Loder avoided the frightened surprise of his, eyes. “Because I withdraw,” he answered, doggedly. Then suddenly Chilcote's tongue was loosened. “Loder,” he cried, excitedly, “you can't do it! God! man, you can't do it!” To reassure himself he laughed--a painfully thin echo of his old, sarcastic laugh. “If it's a matter of greater opportunity--” he began, “of more money--” But Loder turned upon him. “Be quiet!” he said, so menacingly that the other stopped. Then by an effort he conquered himself, “It's not a matter of money, Chilcote,” he said, quietly; “it's a matter of necessity.” He brought the word out with difficulty. Chilcote glanced up. “Necessity?” he repeated. “How? Why?” The reiteration roused Loder. “Because there was a great scene in the House last night,” he began, hurriedly; “because when you go back you'll find that Sefborough has smashed up over the assassination of Sir William Brice-Field at Meshed, and that you have made your mark in a big speech; and because--” Abruptly he stopped. The thing he had come to say--the thing he had meant to say--would not be said. Either his tongue or his resolution failed him, and for the instant he stood as silent and almost as ill at ease as his companion. Then all at once inspiration came to him, in the suggestion of a wellnigh forgotten argument by which he might influence Chilcote and save his own self-respect. “It's all over, Chilcote,” he said, more quietly; “it has run itself out.” And in a dozen sentences he sketched the story of Lillian Astrupp--her past relations with himself, her present suspicions. It was not what he had meant to say; it was not what he had come to say; but it served the purpose--it saved him humiliation. Chilcote listened to the last word; then, as the other finished, he dropped nervously back into his chair. “Good heavens! man,” he said, “why didn't you tell me--why didn't you warn me, instead of filling my mind with your political position? Your political position!” He laughed unsteadily. The long spells of indulgence that had weakened his already maimed faculties showed in the laugh, in the sudden breaking of his voice. “You must do something, Loder!” he added, nervously, checking his amusement; “you must do something!” Loder looked down at him. “No,” he said, decisively. “It's your turn now. It's you who've got to do something.” Chilcote's face turned a shade grayer. “I can't,” he said, below his breath.