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?”
“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.”
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.
Loder slowly followed him, and as the box was brought to light he leaned
forward interestedly.
“As I told you, one is the copy of an old signet-ring, the other a plain
band--a plain gold band like a wedding-ring.” Chilcote laughed as
he placed the four rings side by side on his palm. “I could think of
nothing else that would be wide--and not ostentatious. You know how I
detest display.”
Loder touched the rings. “You have good taste,” he said. “Let's see if
they serve their purpose?” He picked them up and carried them to the
lamp.
Chilcote followed him. “That was an ugly wound,” he said, his curiosity
reawakening as Loder extended his finger. “How did you come by it?”
The other smiled. “It's a memento,” he said.
“Of bravery?”
“No. Quite the reverse.” He looked again at his hand, then glanced back
at Chilcote. “No,” he repeated, with an unusual impulse of confidence.
“It serves to remind me that I am not exempt--that I have been fooled
like other men.”
“That implies a woman?”
“Yes.” Again Loder looked at the scar on his finger. “I seldom recall
the thing, it's so absolutely past. But I rather like to remember it
to-night. I rather want you to know that I've been through the fire.
It's a sort of guarantee.”
Chilcote made a hasty gesture, but the other interrupted it.
“Oh, I know you trust me. But you're giving me a risky post. I want you
to see that women are out of my line--quite out of it.”
“But, my dear chap--”
Loder went on without heeding. “This thing happened eight years ago at
Santasalare,” he said, “a little place between Luna and Pistoria--a mere
handful of houses wedged between two hills. A regular relic of old Italy
crumbling away under flowers and sunshine, with nothing to suggest the
present century except the occasional passing of a train round the base
of one of the hills. I had literally stumbled upon the place on a long
tramp south from Switzerland, and had been tempted into a stay at the
little inn. The night after my arrival something unusual occurred. There
was an accident to the train at the point where it skirted the village.
“There was a small excitement; all the inhabitants were anxious to help,
and I took my share. As a matter of fact, the smash was not disastrous;
the passengers were hurt and frightened, but nobody was killed.”
He paused and looked at his companion, but, seeing him interested, went
on:
“Among these passengers was an English lady. Of all concerned in the
business, she was the least upset. When I came upon her she was sitting
on the shattered door of one of the carriages, calmly rearranging her
hat. On seeing me she looked up with the most charming smile imaginable.
“'I have just been waiting for somebody like you,' she said. 'My stupid
maid has got herself smashed up somewhere in the second-class carriages,
and I have nobody to help me to find my dog.'
“Of course, that first speech ought to have enlightened me, but it
didn't. I only saw the smile and heard the voice; I knew nothing of
whether they were deep or shallow. So I found the maid and found the
dog. The first expressed gratitude; the other didn't. I extricated him
with enormous difficulty from the wreck of the luggage-van, and this was
how he marked his appreciation.” He held out his hand and nodded towards
the scar.
Chilcote glanced up. “So that's the explanation?”
“Yes. I tried to conceal the thing when I restored the dog, but I was
bleeding abominably and I failed. Then the whole business was changed.
It was I who needed seeing to, my new friend insisted; I who should be
looked after, and not she. She forgot the dog in the newer interest of
my wounded finger. The maid, who was practically unhurt, was sent on to
engage rooms at the little inn, and she and I followed slowly.
“That walk impressed me. There was an attractive mistiness of atmosphere
in the warm night, a sensation more than attractive in being made
much of by a woman of one's own class and country after five years'
wandering.” He laughed with a touch of irony. “But I won't take up your
time with details. You know the progress of an ordinary love affair.
Throw in a few more flowers and a little more sunshine than is usual,
a man who is practically a hermit and a woman who knows the world by
heart, and you have the whole thing.
“She insisted on staying in Santasalare for three days in order to keep
my finger bandaged; she ended by staying three weeks in the hope of
smashing up my life.
“On coming to the hotel she had given no name; and in our first
explanations to each other she led me to conclude her an unmarried girl.
It was at the end of the three weeks that I learned that she was not a
free agent, as I had innocently imagined, but possessed a husband whom
she had left ill with malaria at Florence or Rome.
“The news disconcerted me, and I took no pains to hide it. After that
the end came abruptly. In her eyes I had become a fool with middle-class
principles; in my eyes--But there is no need for that. She left
Santasalare the same night in a great confusion of trunks and hat-boxes;
and next morning I strapped on my knapsack and turned my face to the
south.”
“And women don't count ever after?” Chilcote smiled, beguiled out of
himself.
Loder laughed. “That's what I've been trying to convey. Once bitten,
twice shy!” He laughed again and slipped the two rings over his finger
with an air of finality.
“Now, shall I start? This is the latch-key?” He drew a key from the
pocket of Chilcote's evening-clothes. “When I get to Grosvenor Square I
am to find your house, go straight in, mount the stairs, and there on
my right hand will be the door of your--I mean my own--private rooms. I
think I've got it all by heart. I feel inspired; I feel that I can't go
wrong.” He handed the two remaining rings to Chilcote and picked up the
overcoat.
“I'll stick on till I get a wire--,” he said. “Then I'll come back and
we'll reverse again.” He slipped on the coat and moved back towards the
table. Now that the decisive moment had come, it embarrassed him.
Scarcely knowing how to bring it to an end, he held out his hand.
Chilcote took it, paling a little. “'Twill be all right!” he said, with
a sudden return of nervousness. “'Twill be all right! And I've made
it plain about--about the remuneration? A hundred a week--besides all
expenses.”
Loder smiled again. “My pay? Oh yes, you've made it clear as day. Shall
we say good-night now?”
“Yes. Good-night.”
There was a strange, distant note in Chilcote's voice, but the other did
not pretend to hear it. He pressed the hand he was holding, though the
cold dampness of it repelled him.
“Good-night,” he said again.
“Good-night.”
They stood for a moment, awkwardly looking at each other, then Loder
quietly disengaged his hand, crossed the room, and passed through the
door.
Chilcote, left standing alone in the middle of the room, listened while
the last sound of the other's footsteps was audible on the uncarpeted
stairs; then, with a furtive, hurried gesture, he caught up the
green-shaded lamp and passed into Loder's bedroom.