“Oh, my wife knew nothing--knows nothing. It is the political business, the beastly routine of the political life, that is wearing me out.” He stopped nervously, then hurried on, again. “I tell you it's hell to see the same faces, to sit in the same seat day in, day out, knowing all the time that you must hold yourself in hand, must keep your grip on the reins--” “It is always possible to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds.” “To retire? Possible to retire?” Chilcote broke into a loud, sarcastic laugh. “You don't know what the local pressure of a place like Wark stands for. Twenty times I have been within an ace of chucking the whole thing. Once last year I wrote privately to Vale, one of our big men there, and hinted that my health was bad. Two hours after he had read my letter he was in my study. Had I been in Greenland the result would have been the same. No. Resignation is a meaningless word to a man like me.” Loder looked down. “I see,” he said, slowly, “I see.” “Then you see everything--the difficulty, the isolation of the position. Five years ago--three--even two years ago--I was able to endure it; now it gets more unbearable with every month. The day is bound to come when--when”--he paused, hesitating nervously--“when it will be physically impossible for me to be at my post.” Loder remained silent. “Physically impossible,” Chilcote repeated, excitedly. “Until lately I was able to calculate--to count upon myself to some extent; but yesterday I received a shock--yesterday I discovered that--that”--again he hesitated painfully--“that I have passed the stage when one may calculate.” The situation was growing more embarrassing. To hide its awkwardness, Loder moved back to the grate and rebuilt the fire, which had fallen low. Chilcote, still excited by his unusual vehemence, followed him, taking up a position by the mantelpiece. “Well?” he said, looking down. Very slowly Loder rose from his task. “Well?” he reiterated. “Have you nothing to say?” “Nothing, except that your story is unique, and that I suppose I am flattered by your confidence.” His voice was intentionally brusque. Chilcote paid no attention to the voice. Taking a step forward, he laid his fingers on the lapel of Loder's coat. “I have passed the stage where I can count upon myself,” he said, “and I want to count upon somebody else. I want to keep my place in the world's eyes and yet be free--” Loder drew back involuntarily, contempt struggling with bewilderment in his expression. Chilcote lifted his head. “By an extraordinary chance,” he said, “you can do for me what no other man in creation could do. It was suggested to me unconsciously by the story of a book--a book in which men change identities. I saw nothing in it at the time, but this morning, as I lay in bed, sick with yesterday's fiasco, it came back to me--it rushed over my mind in an inspiration. It will save me--and make you. I'm not insulting you, though you'd like to think so.”