His pipe filled, he resumed his seat, resting his elbows on the table in unconscious imitation of Chilcote.

“Got a match?” he said, laconically, holding out his band.

In response Chilcote drew his match-box from his pocket and struck a light.  As their hands touched, an exclamation escaped him.

“By Jove!” he said, with a fretful mixture of disappointment and surprise.  “I hadn’t noticed that!” His eyes were fixed in annoyed interest on Loder’s extended hand.

Loder, following his glance, smiled.  “Odd that we should both have overlooked it!  It clean escaped my mind.  It’s rather an ugly scar.”  He lifted his hand till the light fell more fully on it.  Above the second joint of the third finger ran a jagged furrow, the reminder of a wound that had once laid bare the bone.

Chilcote leaned forward.  “How did you come by it?” he asked.

The other shrugged his shoulders.  “Oh, that’s ancient history.”

“The results are present-day enough.  It’s very awkward!  Very annoying!” Chilcote’s spirits, at all times overeasily played upon, were damped by this obstacle.

Loder, still looking at his hand, didn’t seem to hear.  “There’s only one thing to be done,” he said.  “Each wear two rings on the third finger of the left hand.  Two rings ought to cover it.”  He made a speculative measurement with the stem of his pipe.

Chilcote still looked irritable and disturbed.  “I detest rings.  I never wear rings.”

Loder raised his eyes calmly.  “Neither do I,” he said.  “But there’s no reason for bigotry.”

But Chilcote’s irritability was started.  He pushed back his chair.  “I don’t like the idea,” he said.

The other eyed him amusedly.  “What a queer beggar you are!” he said.  “You waive the danger of a man signing your checks and shy at wearing a piece of jewelry.  I’ll have a fair share of individuality to study.”

Chilcote moved restlessly.  “Everybody knows I detest jewelry.”

“Everybody knows you are capricious.  It’s got to be the rings or nothing, so far as I make out.”

Chilcote again altered his position, avoiding the other’s eyes.  At last, after a struggle with himself, he looked up.

“I suppose you’re right!” he said.  “Have it your own way.”  It was the first small, tangible concession to the stronger will.

Loder took his victory quietly.  “Good!” he said.  “Then it’s all straight sailing?”

“Except for the matter of the—­the remuneration.”  Chilcote hazarded the word uncertainly.

There was a faint pause, then Loder laughed brusquely.  “My pay?”

The other was embarrassed.  “I didn’t want to put it quite like that.”

“But that was what you thought.  Why are you never honest —­even with yourself?”

Chilcote drew his chair closer to the table.  He did not attend to the other’s remark, but his fingers strayed to his waistcoat pocket and fumbled there.