“Have you nothing to say?”

“Nothing, except that your story is unique, and that I suppose I am flattered by your confidence.”  His voice was intentionally brusque.

Chilcote paid no attention to the voice.  Taking a step forward, he laid his fingers on the lapel of Loder’s coat.

“I have passed the stage where I can count upon myself,” he said, “and I want to count upon somebody else.  I want to keep my place in the world’s eyes and yet be free—­”

Loder drew back involuntarily, contempt struggling with bewilderment in his expression.

Chilcote lifted his head.  “By an extraordinary chance,” he said, “you can do for me what no other man in creation could do.  It was suggested to me unconsciously by the story of a book—­a book in which men change identities.  I saw nothing in it at the time, but this morning, as I lay in bed, sick with yesterday’s fiasco, it came back to me—­it rushed over my mind in an inspiration.  It will save me—­and make you.  I’m not insulting you, though you’d like to think so.”

Without remark Loder freed himself from the other’s touch and walked back to his desk.  His anger, his pride, and, against his will, his excitement were all aroused.

He sat down, leaned his elbow on the desk and took his face between his hands.  The man behind him undoubtedly talked madness; but after five years of dreary sanity madness had a fascination.  Against all reason it stirred and roused him.  For one instant his pride and his anger faltered before it, then common-sense flowed back again and adjusted the balance.

“You propose,” he said, slowly, “that for a consideration of money I should trade on the likeness between us—­and become your dummy, when you are otherwise engaged?”

Chilcote colored.  “You are unpleasantly blunt,” he said.

“But I have caught your meaning?”

“In the rough, yes.”

Loder nodded curtly.  “Then take my advice and go home,” he said.  “You’re unhinged.”

The other returned his glance, and as their eyes met Loder was reluctantly compelled to admit that, though the face was disturbed, it had no traces of insanity.

“I make you a proposal,” Chilcote repeated, nervously but with distinctness.  “Do you accept?”

For an instant Loder was at a loss to find a reply sufficiently final.  Chilcote broke in upon the pause.

“After all,” he urged, “what I ask of you is a simple thing.  Merely to carry through my routine duties for a week or two occasionally when I find my endurance giving way—­when a respite becomes essential.  The work would be nothing to a man in your state of mind, the pay anything you like to name.”  In his eagerness he had followed Loder to the desk.  “Won’t you give me an answer?  I told you I am neither mad nor drunk.”

Loder pushed back the scattered papers that lay under his arm.

“Only a lunatic would propose such a scheme.” he said, brusquely and without feeling.