His head was bent and his hand moved carefully as he traced line after line of meaningless words on a sheet of foolscap. Having covered the page with writing, he rose, moved to the centre-table, and compared his task with an open letter that lay there. The comparison seemed to please him; he straightened his shoulders and threw back his head in an attitude of critical satisfaction. So absorbed was he that, when a step sounded on the stairs outside, he did not notice it, and only raised his head when the door was thrown open unceremoniously. Even then his interest was momentary. “Hullo!” he said, his eyes returning to their scrutiny of his task. Chilcote shut the door and came hastily across the room. He looked ill and harassed. As he reached Loder he put out his hand nervously and touched his arm. Loder looked up. “What is it?” he asked. “Any new development?” Chilcote tried to smile. “Yes,” he said, huskily; “it's come.” Loder freed his arm. “What? The end of the world?” “No. The end of me.” The words came jerkily, the strain that had enforced them showing in every syllable. Still Loder was uncomprehending; he could not, or would not, understand. Again Chilcote caught and jerked at his sleeve. “Don't you see? Can't you see?” “No.” Chilcote dropped the sleeve and passed his handkerchief across his forehead. “It's come,” he repeated. “Don't you understand? I want you.” He drew away, then stepped back again anxiously. “I know I'm taking you unawares,” he said. “But it's not my fault. On my soul, it's not! The thing seems to spring at me and grip me--” He stopped, sinking weakly into a chair. For a moment Loder stood erect and immovable--then, almost with reluctance, his glance turned to the figure beside him. “You want me to take your place to-night--without preparation?” His voice was distinct and firm, but it was free from contempt. “Yes; yes, I do.” Chilcote spoke without looking up. “That you may spend the night in morphia--this and other nights?” Chilcote lifted a flushed, unsettled face. “You have no right to preach. You accepted the bargain.” Loder raised his head quickly. “I never--” he began; then both his face and voice altered. “You are quite right,” he said, coldly. “You won't have to complain again.” Chilcote stirred uncomfortably. “My dear chap,” he said, “I meant no offence. It's merely--” “Your nerves. I know. But come to business. What am I to do?” Chilcote rose excitedly. “Yes, business. Let's come to business. It's rough on you, taking you short like this. But you have an erratic person to deal with. I've had a horrible day--a horrible day.” His face had paled again, and in the green lamplight it possessed a grayish hue. Involuntarily Loder turned away. Chilcote watched him as he passed to the desk and began mechanically sorting papers. “A horrible day!” he repeated. “So bad that I daren't face the night. You have read De Quincey?” he asked, with a sudden change of tone. “Yes.”