“How if there was a future,” he said, “as well as a past?”

V

For the space of a minute there was silence in the room, then outside in the still night three clocks simultaneously chimed eleven, and their announcement was taken up and echoed by half a dozen others, loud and faint, hoarse and resonant; for all through the hours of darkness the neighborhood of Fleet Street is alive with chimes.

Chilcote, startled by the jangle, rose from his seat; then, as if driven by an uncontrollable impulse, he spoke again.

“You probably think I am mad—­” he began.

Loder took his pipe out of his mouth.  “I am not so presumptuous,” he said, quietly.

For a space the other eyed him silently, as if trying to gauge his thoughts; then once more he broke into speech.

“Look here,” he said.  “I came to-night to make a proposition.  When I have made it you’ll first of all jeer at it—­as I jeered when I made it to myself; then you’ll see its possibilities—­as I did; then,”—­he paused and glanced round the room nervously—­“then you’ll accept it—­as I did.”  In the uneasy haste of his speech his words broke off almost unintelligibly.

Involuntarily Loder lifted his head to retort, but Chilcote put up his hand.  His face was set with the obstinate determination that weak men sometime exhibit.

“Before I begin I want to say that I am not druuk—­that I am neither mad nor drunk.”  He looked fully at his companion with his restless glance.  “I am quite sane—­quite reasonable.”

Again Loder essayed to speak, but again he put up his hand.

“No.  Hear me out.  You told me something of your story.  I’ll tell you something of mine.  You’ll be the first person, man or woman, that I have confided in for ten years.  You say you have been treated shabbily.  I have treated myself shabbily —­which is harder to reconcile.  I had every chance—­and I chucked every chance away.”

There was a strained pause, then again Loder lifted his head.

“Morphia?” he said, very quietly.

Chilcote wheeled round with a scared gesture.  “How did you know that?” he asked, sharply.

The other smiled.  “It wasn’t guessing—­it wasn’t even deduction.  You told me, or as good as told me, in the fog —­when we talked of Lexington.  You were unstrung that night, and I—­Well, perhaps one gets over-observant from living alone.”  He smiled again.

Chilcote collapsed into his former seat and passed his handkerchief across his forehead.

Loder watched him for a space; then he spoke.  “Why don’t you pull up?” he said.  “You are a young man still.  Why don’t you drop the thing before it gets too late?” His face was unsympathetic, and below the question in his voice lay a note of hard ness.

Chilcote returned his glance.  The suggestion of reproof had accentuated his pallor.  Under his excitement he looked ill and worn.