Loder took his pipe out of his mouth. “I am not so presumptuous,” he said, quietly. For a space the other eyed him silently, as if trying to gauge his thoughts; then once more he broke into speech. “Look here,” he said. “I came to-night to make a proposition. When I have made it you'll first of all jeer at it--as I jeered when I made it to myself; then you'll see its possibilities--as I did; then,”--he paused and glanced round the room nervously--“then you'll accept it--as I did.” In the uneasy haste of his speech his words broke off almost unintelligibly. Involuntarily Loder lifted his head to retort, but Chilcote put up his hand. His face was set with the obstinate determination that weak men sometime exhibit. “Before I begin I want to say that I am not drunk--that I am neither mad nor drunk.” He looked fully at his companion with his restless glance. “I am quite sane--quite reasonable.” Again Loder essayed to speak, but again he put up his hand. “No. Hear me out. You told me something of your story. I'll tell you something of mine. You'll be the first person, man or woman, that I have confided in for ten years. You say you have been treated shabbily. I have treated myself shabbily--which is harder to reconcile. I had every chance--and I chucked every chance away.” There was a strained pause, then again Loder lifted his head. “Morphia?” he said, very quietly. Chilcote wheeled round with a scared gesture. “How did you know that?” he asked, sharply. The other smiled. “It wasn't guessing--it wasn't even deduction. You told me, or as good as told me, in the fog--when we talked of Lexington. You were unstrung that night, and I--Well, perhaps one gets over-observant from living alone.” He smiled again. Chilcote collapsed into his former seat and passed his handkerchief across his forehead. Loder watched him for a space; then he spoke. “Why don't you pull up?” he said. “You are a young man still. Why don't you drop the thing before it gets too late?” His face was unsympathetic, and below the question in his voice lay a note of hard ness. Chilcote returned his glance. The suggestion of reproof had accentuated his pallor. Under his excitement he looked ill and worn. “You might talk till doomsday, but every word would be wasted,” he said, irritably. “I'm past praying for, by something like six years.” “Then why come here?” Loder was pulling hard on his pipe. “I'm not a dealer in sympathy.” “I don't require sympathy.” Chilcote rose again. He was still agitated, but the agitation was quieter. “I want a much more expensive thing than sympathy--and I am willing to pay for it.” The other turned and looked at him. “I have no possession in the world that would be worth a fiver to you,” he said, coldly. “You're either under a delusion or you're wasting my time.” Chilcote laughed nervously. “Wait,” he said. “Wait. I only ask you to wait. First let me sketch you my position--it won't take many words: