A groan of relief fell from Chilcote and the muscles of his face relaxed.  For a, moment he lay back with closed eyes; then the desire that tortured him stirred afresh.  He lifted his eyelids and looked at his companion.  “Hand it to me,” he said, quickly.  “Give it to me.  Give it to me, Loder.  Quick as you can!  There’s a glass on the table and some whiskey and water.  The tabloids dissolve, you know—­” In his new excitement he held out his hand.

But Loder stayed motionless.  He had come to fight, to demand, to plead—­if need be—­for the one hour for which he had lived; the hour that was to satisfy all labor, all endeavor, all ambition.  With dogged persistence he made one more essay.

“Chilcote, you wrote last night to recall me—­” Once again he paused, checked by a new interruption.  Sitting up again, Chilcote struck out suddenly with his left hand in a rush of his old irritability.

“Damn you!” he cried, suddenly, “what are you talking about?  Look at me!  Get me the stuff.  I tell you it’s imperative.”  In his excitement his breath failed and he coughed.  At the effort his whole frame was shaken.

Loder walked to the dressing-table, then back to the bed.  A deep agitation was at work in his mind.

Again Chilcote’s lips parted.  “Loder,” he said, faintly —­“Loder, I must—­I must have it.  It’s imperative.”  Once more he attempted to lift himself, but the effort was futile.

Again Loder turned away.

“Loder—­for God’s sake—­”

With a fierce gesture the other turned on him.  “Good heavens! man—­” he began.  Then unaccountably his voice changed.  The suggestion that had been hovering in his mind took sudden and definite shape.  “All right!” he said, in a lower voice.  “All right!  Stay as you are.”

He crossed to where the empty tumbler stood and hastily mixed the whiskey and water; then crossing to the mantel-piece where lay the small glass tube containing the tightly packed tabloids, he paused and glanced once more towards the bed.  “How many?” he said, laconically.

Chilcote lifted his head.  His face was pitiably drawn, but the feverish brightness in his eyes had increased.  “Five,” he said, sharply.  “Five.  Do you hear, Loder?”

“Five?” Involuntarily Loder lowered the hand that held the tube.  From previous confidences of Chilcote’s he knew the amount of morphia contained in each tabloid, and realized that five tabloids, if not an absolutely dangerous, was at least an excessive dose, even for one accustomed to the drug.  For a moment his resolution failed; then the dominant-note of his nature—­the unconscious, fundamental egotism on which his character was based—­asserted itself beyond denial.  It might be reprehensible, it might even be criminal to accede to such a request, made by a man in such a condition of body and mind; yet the laws of the universe demanded self-assertion—­prompted