The action was abrupt, and it was only as his fingers pressed the bell that a certain unexpectedness, a certain want of suitability in the aspect of the house, struck him.  The door was white, the handle and knocker were of massive silver.  The first seemed a disappointing index of Lakely’s private taste, the second a ridiculous temptation to needy humanity.  He looked again at the number of the house, but it stared back at him convincingly.  Then the door opened.

So keen was his sense of unfitness that, still trying to fuse his impression of Lakely with the idea of silver door-fittings, he stepped into the hall without the usual preliminary question.  Suddenly realizing the necessity, he turned to the servant; but the man forestalled him: 

“Will you come to the white room, sir?  And may I take your coat?”

The smooth certainty of the man’s manner surprised him.  It held another savor of disappointment—­seeming as little in keeping with the keen, business-like Lakely as did the house.  Still struggling with his impression, he allowed himself to be relieved of his hat and coat and in silence ushered up the shallow staircase.

As the last step was reached it came to him again to mention his host’s name; but simultaneously with the suggestion the servant stepped forward with a quick, silent movement and threw open a door.

“Mr. Chilcote!” he announced, in a subdued, discreet voice.

Loder’s first impression was of a room that seemed unusually luxurious, soft, and shadowed.  Then all impression of inanimate things left him suddenly.

For the fraction of a second he stood in the door-way, while the room seemed emptied of everything, except a figure that rose slowly from a couch before the fire at sound of Chilcote’s name; then, with a calmness that to himself seemed incredible, he moved forward into the room.

He might, of course, have beaten a retreat and obviated many things; but life is full of might-have-beens, and retreat never presents itself agreeably to a strong man.  His impulse was to face the difficulty, and he acted on the impulse.

Lillian had risen slowly; and as he neared her she held out her hand.

“Jack!” she exclaimed, softly.  “How sweet of you to remember!”

The voice and words came to him with great distinctness, and as they came one uncertainty passed forever from his mind —­the question as to what relation she and Chilcote held to each other.  With the realization came the thought of Eve, and in the midst of his own difficulty his face hardened.

Lillian ignored the coldness.  Taking his hand, she smiled.  “You’re unusually punctual,” she said.  “But your hands are cold.  Come closer to the fire.”

Loder was not sensible that his hands were cold, but he suffered himself to be drawn forward.

One end of the couch was in firelight, the other in shadow.  By a fortunate arrangement of chance Lillian selected the brighter end for herself and offered the other to her guest.  With a quick sense of respite he accepted it.  At least he could sit secure from detection while he temporized with fate.