“She insisted on staying in Santasalare for three days in order to keep my finger bandaged; she ended by staying three weeks in the hope of smashing up my life. “On coming to the hotel she had given no name; and in our first explanations to each other she led me to conclude her an unmarried girl. It was at the end of the three weeks that I learned that she was not a free agent, as I had innocently imagined, but possessed a husband whom she had left ill with malaria at Florence or Rome. “The news disconcerted me, and I took no pains to hide it. After that the end came abruptly. In her eyes I had become a fool with middle-class principles; in my eyes--But there is no need for that. She left Santasalare the same night in a great confusion of trunks and hat-boxes; and next morning I strapped on my knapsack and turned my face to the south.” “And women don't count ever after?” Chilcote smiled, beguiled out of himself. Loder laughed. “That's what I've been trying to convey. Once bitten, twice shy!” He laughed again and slipped the two rings over his finger with an air of finality. “Now, shall I start? This is the latch-key?” He drew a key from the pocket of Chilcote's evening-clothes. “When I get to Grosvenor Square I am to find your house, go straight in, mount the stairs, and there on my right hand will be the door of your--I mean my own--private rooms. I think I've got it all by heart. I feel inspired; I feel that I can't go wrong.” He handed the two remaining rings to Chilcote and picked up the overcoat. “I'll stick on till I get a wire--,” he said. “Then I'll come back and we'll reverse again.” He slipped on the coat and moved back towards the table. Now that the decisive moment had come, it embarrassed him. Scarcely knowing how to bring it to an end, he held out his hand. Chilcote took it, paling a little. “'Twill be all right!” he said, with a sudden return of nervousness. “'Twill be all right! And I've made it plain about--about the remuneration? A hundred a week--besides all expenses.” Loder smiled again. “My pay? Oh yes, you've made it clear as day. Shall we say good-night now?” “Yes. Good-night.” There was a strange, distant note in Chilcote's voice, but the other did not pretend to hear it. He pressed the hand he was holding, though the cold dampness of it repelled him. “Good-night,” he said again. “Good-night.” They stood for a moment, awkwardly looking at each other, then Loder quietly disengaged his hand, crossed the room, and passed through the door. Chilcote, left standing alone in the middle of the room, listened while the last sound of the other's footsteps was audible on the uncarpeted stairs; then, with a furtive, hurried gesture, he caught up the green-shaded lamp and passed into Loder's bedroom. VIII