Loder kept silent. His curiosity had flared into sudden life at the other's words, but he feared to break the shattered train of thought even by a word. In the silence Chilcote moved uneasily. “You see,” he went on, at last, “when I was here with you I--I felt strong. I--I--” He stopped. “Yes, yes. When you were here with me you felt strong.” “Yes, that's it. While I was here, I felt I could do the thing. But when I went home--when I went up to my rooms--” Again he paused, passing his handkerchief across his forehead. “When you went up to your rooms?” Loder strove hard to keep his control. “To my room--? Oh, I--I forget about that. I forget about the night” He hesitated confusedly. “All I remember is the coming down to breakfast next morning--this morning--at twelve o'clock--” Loder turned to the table and poured himself out some whiskey. “Yes,” he acquiesced, in a very quiet voice. At the word Chilcote rose from his seat. His disquietude was very evident. “Oh, there was breakfast on the table when I came down-stairs--breakfast with flowers and a horrible, dazzling glare of sun. It was then, Loder, as I stood and looked into the room, that the impossibility of it all came to me--that I knew I couldn't stand it--couldn't go on.” Loder swallowed his whiskey slowly. His sense of overpowering curiosity held him very still; but he made no effort to prompt his companion. Again Chilcote shifted his position agitatedly. “It, had to be done,” he said, disjointedly. “I had to do it--then and there. The things were on the bureau--the pens and ink and telegraph forms. They tempted me.” Loder laid down his glass suddenly. An exclamation rose to his lips, but he checked it. At the slight sound of the tumbler touching the table Chilcote turned; but there was no expression on the other's face to affright him. “They tempted me,” he repeated, hastily. “They seemed like magnets--they seemed to draw me towards them. I sat at the bureau staring at them for a long time; then a terrible compulsion seized me--something you could never understand--and I caught up the nearest pen and wrote just what was in my mind. It wasn't a telegram, properly speaking--it was more a letter. I wanted you back and I had to make myself plain. The writing of the message seemed to steady me; the mere forming of the words quieted my mind. I was almost cool when I got up from the bureau and pressed the bell--” “The bell?” “Yes. I rang for a servant. I had to send the wire myself, so I had to get a cab.” His voice rose to irritability. “I pressed the bell several times; but the thing had gone wrong--'twouldn't work. At last I gave it up and went into the corridor to call some one.” “Well?” In the intense suspense of the moment the word escaped Loder.