“I have no private papers,” he said, “so I have nothing to lock up. Everything can stand as it is. A woman named Robins comes in the mornings to clean up and light the fire; otherwise you must shift for yourself. Nobody will disturb you. Quiet, dead quiet, is about the one thing you can count on.” Chilcote, half halting in the doorway, made an attempt to laugh. Of the two, he was noticeably the more embarrassed. In Loder's well-worn, well-brushed tweed suit he felt stranded on his own personality, bereft for the moment of the familiar accessories that helped to cloak deficiencies and keep the wheel of conventionality comfortably rolling. He stood unpleasantly conscious of himself, unable to shape his sensations even in thought. He glanced at the fire, at the table, finally at the chair on which he had thrown his overcoat before entering the bedroom. At the sight of the coat his gaze brightened, the aimlessness forsook him, and he gave an exclamation of relief. “By Jove!” he said. “I clean forgot.” “What?” Loder looked round. “The rings.” He crossed to the coat and thrust his hand into the pocket. “The duplicates only arrived this afternoon. The nick of time, eh?” He spoke fast, his fingers searching busily. Occupation of any kind came as a boon. Loder slowly followed him, and as the box was brought to light he leaned forward interestedly. “As I told you, one is the copy of an old signet-ring, the other a plain band--a plain gold band like a wedding-ring.” Chilcote laughed as he placed the four rings side by side on his palm. “I could think of nothing else that would be wide--and not ostentatious. You know how I detest display.” Loder touched the rings. “You have good taste,” he said. “Let's see if they serve their purpose?” He picked them up and carried them to the lamp. Chilcote followed him. “That was an ugly wound,” he said, his curiosity reawakening as Loder extended his finger. “How did you come by it?” The other smiled. “It's a memento,” he said. “Of bravery?” “No. Quite the reverse.” He looked again at his hand, then glanced back at Chilcote. “No,” he repeated, with an unusual impulse of confidence. “It serves to remind me that I am not exempt--that I have been fooled like other men.” “That implies a woman?” “Yes.” Again Loder looked at the scar on his finger. “I seldom recall the thing, it's so absolutely past. But I rather like to remember it to-night. I rather want you to know that I've been through the fire. It's a sort of guarantee.” Chilcote made a hasty gesture, but the other interrupted it. “Oh, I know you trust me. But you're giving me a risky post. I want you to see that women are out of my line--quite out of it.” “But, my dear chap--”