“There’s nothing to tell,” he said, shortly.  “All that you’ll want to know is here in black and white.  I don’t think you’ll find I have slipped anything; it’s a clear business record.”  From an inner pocket he drew out a bulky note-book, and, recrossing the room, laid it open on the table.  It was a correct, even a minute, record of every action that had been accomplished in Chilcote’s name.  “I don’t think you’ll find any loose ends,” he said, as he turned back the pages.  “I had you and your position in my mind all through.”  He paused and glanced up from the book.  “You have a position that absolutely insists upon attention,” he added, in a different voice.

At the new tone Chilcote looked up as well.  “No moral lectures!” he said, with a nervous laugh.  “I was anxious to know if you had pulled it off—­and you have reassured me.  That’s enough.  I was in a funk this afternoon to know how things were going-one of those sudden, unreasonable funks.  But now that I see you”—­he cut himself short and laughed once more “now that I see you, I’m hanged if I don’t want to—­to prolong your engagement.”

Loder glanced at him, then glanced away.  He felt a quick shame at the eagerness that rose at the words—­a surprised contempt at his own readiness to anticipate the man’s weakness.  But almost as speedily as he had turned away he looked back again.

“Tush, man!” he said, with his old, intolerant manner.  “You’re dreaming.  You’ve had your holiday and school’s begun again.  You must remember you are dining with the Charringtons to-night.  Young Charrington’s coming of age—­quite a big business.  Come along!  I want my clothes.”  He laughed, and, moving closer to Chilcote, slapped him on the shoulder.

Chilcote started; then, suddenly becoming imbued with the other’s manner, he echoed the laugh.

“By Jove!” he said, “you’re right!  You’re quite right!  A man must keep his feet in their own groove.”  Raising his hand, he began to fumble with his tie.

But Loder kept the same position.  “You’ll find the check-book in its usual drawer,” he said.  “I’ve made one entry of a hundred pounds—­pay for the first week.  The rest can stand over until—­” He paused abruptly.

Chilcote shifted his position.  “Don’t talk about that.  It upsets me to anticipate.  I can make out a check to-morrow payable to John Loder.”

“No.  That can wait.  The name of Loder is better out of the book.  We can’t be too careful.”  Loder spoke with unusual impetuosity.  Already a slight, unreasonable jealousy was coloring his thoughts.  Already he grudged the idea of Chilcote with his unstable glance and restless fingers opening the drawers and sorting the papers that for one stupendous fortnight had been his without question.  Turning aside, he changed the subject brusquely.

“Come into the bedroom,” he said.  “It’s half-past seven if it’s a minute, and the Charringtons’ show is at nine.”  Without waiting for a reply, he walked across the room and held the door open.