“No.”

Chilcote dropped the sleeve and passed his handkerchief across his forehead.  “It’s come,” he repeated.  “Don’t you understand?  I want you.”  He drew away, then stepped back again anxiously.  “I know I’m taking you unawares,” he said.  “But it’s not my fault.  On my soul, it’s not!  The thing seems to spring at me and grip me—­” He stopped, sinking weakly into a chair.

For a moment Loder stood erect and immovable—­then, almost with reluctance, his glance turned to the figure beside him.

“You want me to take your place to-night—­without preparation?” His voice was distinct and firm, but it was free from contempt.

“Yes; yes, I do.”  Chilcote spoke without looking up.

“That you may spend the night in morphia—­this and other nights?”

Chilcote lifted a flushed, unsettled face.  “You have no right to preach.  You accepted the bargain.”

Loder raised his head quickly.  “I never—­” he began; then both his face and voice altered.  “You are quite right,” he said, coldly.  “You won’t have to complain again.”

Chilcote stirred uncomfortably.  “My dear chap,” he said, “I meant no offence.  It’s merely—­”

“Your nerves.  I know.  But come to business.  What am I to do?”

Chilcote rose excitedly.  “Yes, business.  Let’s come to business.  It’s rough on you, taking you short like this.  But you have an erratic person to deal with.  I’ve had a horrible day—­a horrible day.”  His face had paled again, and in the green lamplight it possessed a grayish hue.  Involuntarily Loder turned away.

Chilcote watched him as he passed to the desk and began mechanically sorting papers.  “A horrible day!” he repeated.  “So bad that I daren’t face the night.  You have read De Quincey?” he asked, with a sudden change of tone.

“Yes.”

“Then read him again and you’ll understand.  I have all the horrors—­without any art.  I have no ‘Ladies of Sorrow,’ but I have worse monsters than his ’crocodile’.”  He laughed unpleasantly.

Loder turned.  “Why in the devil’s name—­” he began; then again he halted.  Something in Chilcote’s drawn, excited face checked him.  The strange sense of predestination that we sometimes see in the eyes of another struck cold upon him, chilling his last attempt at remonstrance.  “What do you want me to do?” he substituted, in an ordinary voice.

The words steadied Chilcote.  He laughed a little.  The laugh was still shaky, but it was pitched in a lower key.

“You—­you’re quite right to pull me up.  We have no time to waste.  It must be one o’clock.”  He pulled out his watch, then walked to the window and stood looking down into the shadowy court.  “How quiet you are here!” he said.  Then abruptly anew thought struck him and he wheeled back into the room.  “Loder,” he said, quickly—–­“Loder, I have an idea!  While you are me, why shouldn’t I be you?  Why shouldn’t I be John Loder instead of the vagrant we contemplated?  It covers everything—­it explains everything.  It’s magnificent!  I’m amazed we never thought of it before.”