The other eyed him amusedly. “What a queer beggar you are!” he said. “You waive the danger of a man signing your checks and shy at wearing a piece of jewelry. I'll have a fair share of individuality to study.” Chilcote moved restlessly. “Everybody knows I detest jewelry.” “Everybody knows you are capricious. It's got to be the rings or nothing, so far as I make out.” Chilcote again altered his position, avoiding the other's eyes. At last, after a struggle with himself, he looked up. “I suppose you're right!” he said. “Have it your own way.” It was the first small, tangible concession to the stronger will. Loder took his victory quietly. “Good!” he said. “Then it's all straight sailing?” “Except for the matter of the--the remuneration.” Chilcote hazarded the word uncertainly. There was a faint pause, then Loder laughed brusquely. “My pay?” The other was embarrassed. “I didn't want to put it quite like that.” “But that was what you thought. Why are you never honest--even with yourself?” Chilcote drew his chair closer to the table. He did not attend to the other's remark, but his fingers strayed to his waistcoat pocket and fumbled there. Loder saw the gesture. “Look here,” he said, “you are overtaxing yourself. The affair of the pay isn't pressing; we'll shelve it to another night. You look tired out.” Chilcote lifted his eyes with a relieved glance. “Thanks. I do feel a bit fagged. If I may, I'll have that whiskey that I refused last night.” “Why, certainly.” Loder rose at once and crossed to a cupboard in the wall. In silence he brought out whiskey, glasses, and a siphon of soda-water. “Say when!” he said, lifting the whiskey. “Now. And I'll have plain water instead of soda, if it's all the same.” “Oh, quite.” Loder recrossed the room. Instantly his back was turned, Chilcote drew a couple of tabloids from his pocket and dropped them into his glass. As the other came slowly back he laughed nervously. “Thanks. See to your own drink now; I can manage this.” He took the jug unceremoniously, and, carefully guarding his glass from the light, poured in the water with excited haste. “What shall we drink to?” he said. Loder methodically mixed his own drink and lifted the glass. “Oh, to the career of John Chilcote!” he answered. For an instant the other hesitated. There was something prophetic in the sound of the toast. But he shook the feeling off and held up his glass. “To the career of John Chilcote!” he said, with another unsteady laugh. VII It was a little less than three weeks since Chilcote and Loder had drunk their toast, and again Loder was seated at his desk.