Loder was still beside the desk.  “I thought of it,” he said, without looking back.

“And didn’t suggest it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Loder said nothing and the other colored.

“Jealous of your reputation?” he said, satirically.

“I have none to be jealous of.”

Chilcote laughed disagreeably.  “Then you aren’t so for gone in philosophy as I thought.  You have a niche in your own good opinion.”

Again Loder was silent; then he smiled.  “You have an oddly correct perception at times,” he said.  “I suppose I have had a lame sort of pride in keeping my name clean.  But pride like that is out of fashion—­and I’ve got to float with the tide.”  He laughed, the short laugh that Chilcote had heard once or twice before, and, crossing the room, he stood beside his visitor.  “After all,” he said, “what business have I with pride, straight or lame?  Have my identity, if you want it.  When all defences have been broken down one barrier won’t save the town.”  Laughing again, he laid his hand on the other’s arm.  “Come,” he said, “give your orders.  I capitulate.”

An hour later the two men passed from Loder’s bed room, where the final arrangements had been completed, back into the sitting-room.  Loder came first, in faultless evening-dress.  His hair was carefully brushed, the clothes he wore fitted him perfectly.  To any glance, critical or casual, he was the man who had mounted the stairs and entered the rooms earlier in the evening.  Chilcote’s manner of walking and poise of the head seemed to have descended upon him with Chilcote’s clothes.  He came into the room hastily and passed to the desk.

“I have no private papers,” he said, “so I have nothing to lock up.  Everything can stand as it is.  A woman named Robins comes in the mornings to clean up and light the fire; otherwise you must shift for yourself.  Nobody will disturb you.  Quiet, dead quiet, is about the one thing you can count on.”

Chilcote, half halting in the doorway, made an attempt to laugh.  Of the two, he was noticeably the more embarrassed.  In Loder’s well-worn, well-brushed tweed suit he felt stranded on his own personality, bereft for the moment of the familiar accessories that helped to cloak deficiencies and keep the wheel of conventionality comfortably rolling.  He stood unpleasantly conscious of himself, unable to shape his sensations even in thought.  He glanced at the fire, at the table, finally at the chair on which he had thrown his overcoat before entering the bedroom.  At the sight of the coat his gaze brightened, the aimlessness forsook him, and he gave an exclamation of relief.

“By Jove!” he said.  “I clean forgot.”

“What?” Loder looked round.

“The rings.”  He crossed to the coat and thrust his hand into the pocket.  “The duplicates only arrived this afternoon.  The nick of time, eh?” He spoke fast, his fingers searching busily.  Occupation of any kind came as a boon.