Loder saw the gesture.  “Look here,” he said, “you are overtaxing yourself.  The affair of the pay isn’t pressing; we’ll shelve it to another night.  You look tired out.”

Chilcote lifted his eyes with a relieved glance.  “Thanks.  I do feel a bit fagged.  If I may, I’ll have that whiskey that I refused last night.”

“Why, certainly.”  Loder rose at once and crossed to a cupboard in the wall.  In silence he brought out whiskey, glasses, and a siphon of soda-water.  “Say when!” he said, lifting the whiskey.

“Now.  And I’ll have plain water instead of soda, if it’s all the same.”

“Oh, quite.”  Loder recrossed the room.  Instantly his back was turned, Chilcote drew a couple of tabloids from his pocket and dropped them into his glass.  As the other came slowly back he laughed nervously.

“Thanks.  See to your own drink now; I can manage this.”  He took the jug unceremoniously, and, carefully guarding his glass from the light, poured in the water with excited haste.

“What shall we drink to?” he said.

Loder methodically mixed his own drink and lifted the glass.  “Oh, to the career of John Chilcote!” he answered.

For an instant the other hesitated.  There was something prophetic in the sound of the toast.  But he shook the feeling off and held up his glass.

“To the career of John Chilcote!” he said, with another unsteady laugh.

VII

It was a little less than three weeks since Chilcote and Loder had drunk their toast, and again Loder was seated at his desk.

His head was bent and his hand moved carefully as he traced line after line of meaningless words on a sheet of foolscap.  Having covered the page with writing, he rose, moved to the centre-table, and compared his task with an open letter that lay there.  The comparison seemed to please him; he straightened his shoulders and threw back his head in an attitude of critical satisfaction.  So absorbed was he that, when a step sounded on the stairs outside, he did not notice it, and only raised his head when the door was thrown open unceremoniously.  Even then his interest was momentary.

“Hullo!” he said, his eyes returning to their scrutiny of his task.

Chilcote shut the door and came hastily across the room.  He looked ill and harassed.  As he reached Loder he put out his hand nervously and touched his arm.

Loder looked up.  “What is it?” he asked.  “Any new development?”

Chilcote tried to smile.  “Yes,” he said, huskily; “it’s come.”

Loder freed his arm.  “What?  The end of the world?”

“No.  The end of me.”  The words came jerkily, the strain that had enforced them showing in every syllable.

Still Loder was uncomprehending; he could not, or would not, understand.

Again Chilcote caught and jerked at his sleeve.  “Don’t you see?  Can’t you see?”