“Most prisons have wide gates!” Chilcote laughed again unpleasantly.  “That was six years ago.  I had started on the morphia tack four years earlier, but up to my father’s death I had it under my thumb—­or believed I had; and in the realization of my new responsibilities and the excitement of the political fight I almost put it aside.  For several months after I entered Parliament I worked.  I believe I made one speech that marked me as a coming man.”  He laughed derisively.  “I even married—­”

“Married?”

“Yes.  A girl of nineteen—­the ward of a great statesman.  It was a brilliant marriage—­politically as well as socially.  But it didn’t work.  I was born without the capacity for love.  First the social life palled on me; then my work grew irksome.  There was only one factor to make life endurable—­morphia.  Before six months were out I had fully admitted that.”

“But your wife?”

“Oh, my wife knew nothing—­knows nothing.  It is the political business, the beastly routine of the political life, that is wearing me out.”  He stopped nervously, then hurried on, again.  “I tell you it’s hell to see the same faces, to sit in the same seat day in, day out, knowing all the time that you must hold yourself in hand, must keep your grip on the reins—­”

“It is always possible to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds.”

“To retire?  Possible to retire?” Chilcote broke into a loud, sarcastic laugh.  “You don’t know what the local pressure of a place like Wark stands for.  Twenty times I have been within an ace of chucking the whole thing.  Once last year I wrote privately to Vale, one of our big men there, and hinted that my health was bad.  Two hours after he had read my letter he was in my study.  Had I been in Greenland the result would have been the same.  No.  Resignation is a meaningless word to a man like me.”

Loder looked down.  “I see,” he said, slowly, “I see.”

“Then you see everything—­the difficulty, the isolation of the position.  Five years ago—­three—­even two years ago—­I was able to endure it; now it gets more unbearable with every month.  The day is bound to come when—­when”—­he paused, hesitating nervously—­“when it will be physically impossible for me to be at my post.”

Loder remained silent.

“Physically impossible,” Chilcote repeated, excitedly.  “Until lately I was able to calculate—­to count upon myself to some extent; but yesterday I received a shock—­yesterday I discovered that—­that”—­again he hesitated painfully—­“that I have passed the stage when one may calculate.”

The situation was growing more embarrassing.  To hide its awkwardness, Loder moved back to the grate and rebuilt the fire, which had fallen low.

Chilcote, still excited by his unusual vehemence, followed him, taking up a position by the mantelpiece.

“Well?” he said, looking down.

Very slowly Loder rose from his task.  “Well?” he reiterated.