At his tone and his laugh Loder's blood stirred; with a sudden, unexpected impulse his hand tightened on the banister, and, looking up, he caught sight of the face above him--his own face, it seemed, alight with malicious interest. At the sight a strange sensation seized him; his grip on the banister loosened, and, pushing past Chilcote, he hurriedly mounted the stairs. Outside his own door the other overtook him. “Loder!” he said. “Loder! I meant no harm. A man must have a laugh sometimes.” But Loder was facing the door and did not turn round. A sudden fear shook Chilcote. “Loder!” he exclaimed again, “you wouldn't desert me? I can't go back to-night. I can't go back.” Still Loder remained immovable. Alarmed by his silence, Chilcote stepped closer to him. “Loder! Loder, you won't desert me?” He caught hastily at his arm. With a quick repulsion Loder shook him off; then almost as quickly he turned round. “What fools we all are!” he said, abruptly. “We, only differ in degree. Come in, and let us change our clothes.” XIII The best moments of a man's life are the moments when, strong in himself, he feels that the world lies before him. Gratified ambition may be the summer, but anticipation is the ardent spring-time of a man's career. As Loder drove that night frown Fleet Street to Grosvenor Square he realized this--though scarcely with any degree of consciousness--for he was no accomplished self-analyst. But in a wave of feeling too vigorous to be denied he recognized his regained foothold--the step that lifted him at once from the pit to the pinnacle. In that moment of realization he looked neither backward nor forward. The present was all-sufficing. Difficulties might loom ahead, but difficulties had but one object--the testing and sharpening of a man's strength. In the first deep surge of egotistical feeling he almost rejoiced in Chilcote's weakness. The more Chilcote tangled the threads of his life, the stronger must be the fingers that unravelled them. He was possessed by a great impatience; the joy of action was stirring in his blood. Leaving the cab, he walked confidently to the door of Chilcote's house and inserted the latch-key. Even in this small act there was a grain of individual satisfaction. Then very quietly he opened the door and crossed the hall. As he entered, a footman was arranging the fire that burned in the big grate. Seeing the man, he halted. “Where is your mistress?” he asked, in unconscious repetition of his first question in the same house.