The reiteration roused Loder.  “Because there was a great scene in the House last night,” he began, hurriedly; “because when you go back you’ll find that Sefborough has smashed up over the assassination of Sir William Brice-Field at Meshed, and that you have made your mark in a big speech; and because —­” Abruptly he stopped.  The thing he had come to say—­the thing he had meant to say—­would not be said.  Either his tongue or his resolution failed him, and for the instant he stood as silent and almost as ill at ease as his companion.  Then all at once inspiration came to him, in the suggestion of a wellnigh forgotten argument by which he might influence Chilcote and save his own self-respect.  “It’s all over, Chilcote,” he said, more quietly; “it has run itself out.”  And in a dozen sentences he sketched the story of Lillian Astrupp—­her past relations with himself, her present suspicions.  It was not what he had meant to say; it was not what he had come to say; but it served the purpose—­it saved him humiliation.

Chilcote listened to the last word; then, as the other finished, he dropped nervously back into his chair.  “Good heavens! man,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me—­why didn’t you warn me, instead of filling my mind with your political position?  Your political position!” He laughed unsteadily.  The long spells of indulgence that had weakened his already maimed faculties showed in the laugh, in the sudden breaking of his voice.  “You must do something, Loder!” he added, nervously, checking his amusement; “you must do something!”

Loder looked down at him.  “No,” he said, decisively.  “It’s your turn now.  It’s you who’ve got to do something.”

Chilcote’s face turned a shade grayer.  “I can’t,” he said, below his breath.

“Can’t?  Oh yes, you can.  We can all do—­anything.  It’s not too late; there’s just sufficient time.  Chilcote,” he added, suddenly, “don’t you see that the thing has been madness all along—­has been like playing with the most infernal explosives?  You may thank whatever you have faith in that nobody has been smashed up!  You are going back.  Do you understand me?  You are going back—­now, to-day, before it’s too late.”  There was a great change in Loder; his strong, imperturbable face was stirred; he was moved in both voice and manner.  Time after time he repeated his injunction—­reasoning, expostulating, insisting.  It almost seemed that he fought some strenuous invisible force rather than the shattered man before him.

Chilcote moved nervously in his seat.  It was the first real clash of personalities.  He felt it—­recognized it by instinct.  The sense of domination had fallen on him; he knew himself impotent in the other’s hands.  Whatever he might attempt in moments of solitude, he possessed no voice in presence of this invincible second self.  For a while he struggled—­he did not fight, he struggled to resist—­then, lifting his eyes, he met Loder’s.  “And what will you do?” he said, weakly.