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Masquerader, The

<h2> IV </h2> To those whose sphere lies in the west of London, Fleet Street is little more than a name, and Clifford's Inn a mere dead letter. Yet Clifford's Inn lies as safely stowed away in the shadow of the Law Courts as any grave under a country church wall; it is as green of grass, as gray of stone, as irresponsive to the passing footstep. Facing the railed-in grass-plot of its little court stood the house in which John Loder had his rooms. Taken at a first glance, the house had the deserted air of an office, inhabited only in the early hours; but, as night fell, lights would be seen to show out, first on one floor, then on another—faint, human beacons unconsciously signalling each other. The rooms Loder inhabited were on the highest floor; and from their windows one might gaze philosophically on the tree-tops, forgetting the uneven pavement and the worn railing that hemmed them round. In the landing outside the rooms his name appeared above his door, but the paint had been soiled by time, and the letters for the most part reduced to shadows; so that, taken in conjunction with the gaunt staircase and bare walls, the place had a cheerless look. Inside, however, the effect was somewhat mitigated. The room on the right hand, as one entered the small passage that served as hall, was of fair size, though low-ceiled. The paint of the wall-panelling, like the name above the outer door, had long ago been worn to a dirty and nondescript hue, and the floor was innocent of carpet; yet in the middle of the room stood a fine old Cromwell table, and on the plain deal book-shelves and along the mantel-piece were some valuable books—political and historical. There were no curtains on the windows, and a common reading-lamp with a green shade stood on a desk. It was the room of a man with few hobbies and no pleasures—who existed because he was alive, and worked because he must. Three nights after the great fog John Loder sat by his desk in the light of the green-shaded lamp. The remains of a very frugal supper stood on the centre-table, and in the grate a small and economical-looking fire was burning. Having written for close on two hours, he pushed back his chair and stretched his cramped fingers; then he yawned, rose, and slowly walked across the room. Reaching the mantel-piece, he took a pipe from the pipe-rack and some tobacco from the jar that stood behind the books. His face looked tired and a little worn, as is common with men who have worked long at an uncongenial task. Shredding the tobacco between his hands, he slowly filled the pipe, then lighted it from the fire with a spill of twisted paper. Almost at the moment that he applied the light the sound of steps mounting the uncarpeted stairs outside caught his attention, and he raised his head to listen. Presently the steps halted and he heard a match struck. The stranger was evidently uncertain of his whereabouts. Then the steps moved forward again and paused. An expression of surprise crossed Loder's face, and he laid down his pipe. As the visitor knocked, he walked quietly across the room and opened the door. The passage outside was dark, and the new-comer drew back before the light from the room. "Mr. Loder—?" he began, interrogatively. Then all at once he laughed in embarrassed apology. "Forgive me," he said. "The light rather dazzled me. I didn't realize who it was." Loder recognized the voice as belonging to his acquaintance of the fog. "Oh, it's you!" he said. "Won't you come in?" His voice was a little cold. This sudden resurrection left him surprised—and not quite pleasantly surprised. He walked back to the fireplace, followed by his guest. The guest seemed nervous and agitated. "I must apologize for the hour of my visit," he said. "My—my time is not quite my own." Loder waved his hand. "Whose time is his own?" he said. Chilcote, encouraged by the remark, drew nearer to the fire. Until this moment he had refrained from looking directly at his host; now, however, he raised his eyes, and, despite his preparation, he recoiled unavoidably before the extraordinary resemblance. Seen here, in the casual surroundings of a badly furnished and crudely lighted room, it was even more astounding than it had been in the mystery of the fog. "Forgive me," he said again. "It is physical—purely physical. I am bowled over against my will." Loder smiled. The slight contempt that Chilcote had first inspired rose again, and with it a second feeling less easily defined. The man seemed so unstable, so incapable, yet so grotesquely suggestive to himself. "The likeness is rather overwhelming," he said; "but not heavy enough to sink under. Come nearer the fire. What brought you here? Curiosity?" There was a wooden arm-chair by the fireplace. He indicated it with a wave of the hand; then turned and took up his smouldering pipe. Chilcote, watching him furtively, obeyed the gesture and sat down. "It is extraordinary!" he said, as if unable to dismiss the subject. "It—it is quite extraordinary!" The other glanced round. "Let's drop it," he said. "It's so confoundedly obvious." Then his tone changed. "Won't you smoke?" he asked. "Thanks." Chilcote began to fumble for his cigarettes. But his host forestalled him. Taking a box from the mantel-piece, he held it out. "My one extravagance!" he said, ironically. "My resources bind me to one; and I think I have made a wise selection. It is about the only vice we haven't to pay for six times over." He glanced sharply at the face so absurdly like his own, then, lighting a fresh spill, offered his guest a light. Chilcote moistened his cigarette and leaned forward. In the flare of the paper his face looked set and anxious, but Loder saw that the lips did not twitch as they had done on the previous occasion that he had given him a light, and a look of comprehension crossed his eyes. "What will you drink? Or, rather, will you have a whiskey? I keep nothing else. Hospitality is one of the debarred luxuries." Chilcote shook his head. "I seldom drink. But don't let that deter you." Loder smiled. "I have one drink in the twenty-four hours—generally at two o'clock, when my night's work is done. A solitary man has to look where he is going." "You work till two?" "Two—or three." Chilcote's eyes wandered to the desk. "You write?" he asked. The other nodded curtly. "Books?" Chilcote's tone was anxious. Loder laughed, and the bitter note showed in his voice. "No—not books," he said. Chilcote leaned back in his chair and passed his hand across his face. The strong wave of satisfaction that the words woke in him was difficult to conceal. "What is your work?" Loder turned aside. "You must not ask that," he said, shortly. "When a man has only one capacity, and the capacity has no outlet, he is apt to run to seed in a wrong direction. I cultivate weeds—at abominable labor and a very small reward." He stood with his back to the fire, facing his visitor; his attitude was a curious blending of pride, defiance, and despondency. Chilcote leaned forward again. "Why speak of yourself like that? You are a man of intelligence and education." He spoke questioningly, anxiously. "Intelligence and education!" Loder laughed shortly. "London is cemented with intelligence. And education! What is education? The court dress necessary to presentation, the wig and gown necessary to the barrister. But do the wig and gown necessarily mean briefs? Or the court dress royal favor? Education is the accessory; it is influence that is essential. You should know that." Chilcote moved restlessly in his seat. "You talk bitterly," he said. The other looked up. "I think bitterly, which is worse. I am one of the unlucky beggars who, in the expectation of money, has been denied a profession—even a trade, to which to cling in time of shipwreck; and who, when disaster comes, drift out to sea. I warned you the other night to steer clear of me. I come under the head of flotsam!" Chilcote's face lighted. "You came a cropper?" he asked. "No. It was some one else who came the cropper—I only dealt in results." "Big results?" "A drop from a probable eighty thousand pounds to a certain eight hundred." Chilcote glanced up. "How did you take it?" he asked. "I? Oh, I was twenty-five then. I had a good many hopes and a lot of pride; but there is no place for either in a working world." "But your people?" "My last relation died with the fortune." "Your friends?" Loder laid down his pipe. "I told you I was twenty-five," he said, with the tinge of humor that sometimes crossed his manner. "Doesn't that explain things? I had never taken favors in prosperity; a change of fortune was not likely to alter my ways. As I have said, I was twenty-five." He smiled. "When I realized my position I sold all my belongings with the exception of a table and a few books—which I stored. I put on a walking-suit and let my beard grow; then, with my entire capital in my pocket, I left England without saying good-bye to any one." "For how long?" "Oh, for six years. I wandered half over Europe and through a good part of Asia in the time." "And then?" "Then? Oh, I shaved off the beard and came back to London!" He looked at Chilcote, partly contemptuous, partly amused at his curiosity. But Chilcote sat staring in silence. The domination of the other's personality and the futility of his achievements baffled him. Loder saw his bewilderment. "You wonder what the devil I came into the world for," he said. "I sometimes wonder the same myself." At his words a change passed over Chilcote. He half rose, then dropped back into his seat. "You have no friends?" he said. "Your life is worth nothing to you?" Loder raised his head. "I thought I had conveyed that impression." "You are an absolutely free man." "No man is free who works for his bread. If things had been different I might have been in such shoes as yours, sauntering in legislative byways; my hopes turned that way once. But hopes, like more substantial things, belong to the past—" He stopped abruptly and looked at his companion. The change in Chilcote had become more acute; he sat fingering his cigarette, his brows drawn down, his lips set nervously in a conflict of emotions. For a space he stayed very still, avoiding Loder's eyes; then, as if decision had suddenly come to him, he turned and met his gaze. "How if there was a future," he said, "as well as a past?" <h2> V </h2> For the space of a minute there was silence in the room, then outside in the still night three clocks simultaneously chimed eleven, and their announcement was taken up and echoed by half a dozen others, loud and faint, hoarse and resonant; for all through the hours of darkness the neighborhood of Fleet Street is alive with chimes. Chilcote, startled by the jangle, rose from his seat; then, as if driven by an uncontrollable impulse, he spoke again. "You probably think I am mad—" he began. Loder took his pipe out of his mouth. "I am not so presumptuous," he said, quietly. For a space the other eyed him silently, as if trying to gauge his thoughts; then once more he broke into speech. "Look here," he said. "I came to-night to make a proposition. When I have made it you'll first of all jeer at it—as I jeered when I made it to myself; then you'll see its possibilities—as I did; then,"—he paused and glanced round the room nervously—"then you'll accept it—as I did." In the uneasy haste of his speech his words broke off almost unintelligibly. Involuntarily Loder lifted his head to retort, but Chilcote put up his hand. His face was set with the obstinate determination that weak men sometime exhibit. "Before I begin I want to say that I am not drunk—that I am neither mad nor drunk." He looked fully at his companion with his restless glance. "I am quite sane—quite reasonable." Again Loder essayed to speak, but again he put up his hand. "No. Hear me out. You told me something of your story. I'll tell you something of mine. You'll be the first person, man or woman, that I have confided in for ten years. You say you have been treated shabbily. I have treated myself shabbily—which is harder to reconcile. I had every chance—and I chucked every chance away." There was a strained pause, then again Loder lifted his head. "Morphia?" he said, very quietly. Chilcote wheeled round with a scared gesture. "How did you know that?" he asked, sharply. The other smiled. "It wasn't guessing—it wasn't even deduction. You told me, or as good as told me, in the fog—when we talked of Lexington. You were unstrung that night, and I—Well, perhaps one gets over-observant from living alone." He smiled again. Chilcote collapsed into his former seat and passed his handkerchief across his forehead. Loder watched him for a space; then he spoke. "Why don't you pull up?" he said. "You are a young man still. Why don't you drop the thing before it gets too late?" His face was unsympathetic, and below the question in his voice lay a note of hard ness. Chilcote returned his glance. The suggestion of reproof had accentuated his pallor. Under his excitement he looked ill and worn. "You might talk till doomsday, but every word would be wasted," he said, irritably. "I'm past praying for, by something like six years." "Then why come here?" Loder was pulling hard on his pipe. "I'm not a dealer in sympathy." "I don't require sympathy." Chilcote rose again. He was still agitated, but the agitation was quieter. "I want a much more expensive thing than sympathy—and I am willing to pay for it." The other turned and looked at him. "I have no possession in the world that would be worth a fiver to you," he said, coldly. "You're either under a delusion or you're wasting my time." Chilcote laughed nervously. "Wait," he said. "Wait. I only ask you to wait. First let me sketch you my position—it won't take many words: "My grandfather was a Chilcote of Westmoreland; he was one of the first of his day and his class to recognize that there was a future in trade, so, breaking his own little twig from the family tree, he went south to Wark and entered a ship-owning firm. In thirty years' time he died, the owner of one of the biggest trades in England, having married the daughter of his chief. My father was twenty-four and still at Oxford when he inherited. Almost his first act was to reverse my grandfather's early move by going north and piecing together the family friendship. He married his first cousin; and then, with the Chilcote prestige revived and the shipping money to back it, he entered on his ambition, which was to represent East Wark in the Conservative interest. It was a big fight, but he won—as much by personal influence as by any other. He was an aristocrat, but he was a keen business-man as well. The combination carries weight with your lower classes. He never did much in the House, but he was a power to his party in Wark. They still use his name there to conjure with." Loder leaned forward interestedly. "Robert Chilcote?" he said. "I have heard of him. One of those fine, unostentatious figures—strong in action, a little narrow in outlook, perhaps, but essential to a country's staying power. You have every reason to be proud of your father." Chilcote laughed suddenly. "How easily we sum up, when a matter is impersonal! My father may have been a fine figure, but he shouldn't have left me to climb to his pedestal." Loder's eyes questioned. In his newly awakened interest he had let his pipe go out. "Don't you grasp my meaning?" Chilcote went on. "My father died and I was elected for East Wark. You may say that if I had no real inclination for the position I could have kicked. But I tell you I couldn't. Every local interest, political and commercial, hung upon the candidate being a Chilcote. I did what eight men out of ten would have done. I yielded to pressure." "It was a fine opening!" The words escaped Loder. "Most prisons have wide gates!" Chilcote laughed again unpleasantly. "That was six years ago. I had started on the morphia tack four years earlier, but up to my father's death I had it under my thumb—or believed I had; and in the realization of my new responsibilities and the excitement of the political fight I almost put it aside. For several months after I entered Parliament I worked. I believe I made one speech that marked me as a coming man." He laughed derisively. "I even married—" "Married?" "Yes. A girl of nineteen—the ward of a great statesman. It was a brilliant marriage—politically as well as socially. But it didn't work. I was born without the capacity for love. First the social life palled on me; then my work grew irksome. There was only one factor to make life endurable—morphia. Before six months were out I had fully admitted that." "But your wife?" "Oh, my wife knew nothing—knows nothing. It is the political business, the beastly routine of the political life, that is wearing me out." He stopped nervously, then hurried on, again. "I tell you it's hell to see the same faces, to sit in the same seat day in, day out, knowing all the time that you must hold yourself in hand, must keep your grip on the reins—" "It is always possible to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds." "To retire? Possible to retire?" Chilcote broke into a loud, sarcastic laugh. "You don't know what the local pressure of a place like Wark stands for. Twenty times I have been within an ace of chucking the whole thing. Once last year I wrote privately to Vale, one of our big men there, and hinted that my health was bad. Two hours after he had read my letter he was in my study. Had I been in Greenland the result would have been the same. No. Resignation is a meaningless word to a man like me." Loder looked down. "I see," he said, slowly, "I see." "Then you see everything—the difficulty, the isolation of the position. Five years ago—three—even two years ago—I was able to endure it; now it gets more unbearable with every month. The day is bound to come when—when"—he paused, hesitating nervously—"when it will be physically impossible for me to be at my post." Loder remained silent. "Physically impossible," Chilcote repeated, excitedly. "Until lately I was able to calculate—to count upon myself to some extent; but yesterday I received a shock—yesterday I discovered that—that"—again he hesitated painfully—"that I have passed the stage when one may calculate." The situation was growing more embarrassing. To hide its awkwardness, Loder moved back to the grate and rebuilt the fire, which had fallen low. Chilcote, still excited by his unusual vehemence, followed him, taking up a position by the mantelpiece. "Well?" he said, looking down. Very slowly Loder rose from his task. "Well?" he reiterated. "Have you nothing to say?" "Nothing, except that your story is unique, and that I suppose I am flattered by your confidence." His voice was intentionally brusque. Chilcote paid no attention to the voice. Taking a step forward, he laid his fingers on the lapel of Loder's coat. "I have passed the stage where I can count upon myself," he said, "and I want to count upon somebody else. I want to keep my place in the world's eyes and yet be free—" Loder drew back involuntarily, contempt struggling with bewilderment in his expression. Chilcote lifted his head. "By an extraordinary chance," he said, "you can do for me what no other man in creation could do. It was suggested to me unconsciously by the story of a book—a book in which men change identities. I saw nothing in it at the time, but this morning, as I lay in bed, sick with yesterday's fiasco, it came back to me—it rushed over my mind in an inspiration. It will save me—and make you. I'm not insulting you, though you'd like to think so." Without remark Loder freed himself from the other's touch and walked back to his desk. His anger, his pride, and, against his will, his excitement were all aroused. He sat down, leaned his elbow on the desk and took his face between his hands. The man behind him undoubtedly talked madness; but after five years of dreary sanity madness had a fascination. Against all reason it stirred and roused him. For one instant his pride and his anger faltered before it, then common-sense flowed back again and adjusted the balance. "You propose," he said, slowly, "that for a consideration of money I should trade on the likeness between us—and become your dummy, when you are otherwise engaged?" Chilcote colored. "You are unpleasantly blunt," he said. "But I have caught your meaning?" "In the rough, yes." Loder nodded curtly. "Then take my advice and go home," he said. "You're unhinged." The other returned his glance, and as their eyes met Loder was reluctantly compelled to admit that, though the face was disturbed, it had no traces of insanity. "I make you a proposal," Chilcote repeated, nervously but with distinctness. "Do you accept?" For an instant Loder was at a loss to find a reply sufficiently final. Chilcote broke in upon the pause. "After all," he urged, "what I ask of you is a simple thing. Merely to carry through my routine duties for a week or two occasionally when I find my endurance giving way—when a respite becomes essential. The work would be nothing to a man in your state of mind, the pay anything you like to name." In his eagerness he had followed Loder to the desk. "Won't you give me an answer? I told you I am neither mad nor drunk." Loder pushed back the scattered papers that lay under his arm. "Only a lunatic would propose such a scheme." he said, brusquely and without feeling. "Why?" The other's lips parted for a quick retort; then in a surprising way the retort seemed to fail him. "Oh, because the thing isn't feasible, isn't practicable from any point of view." Chilcote stepped closer. "Why?" he insisted. "Because it couldn't work, man! Couldn't hold for a dozen hours." Chilcote put out his hand and touched his arm. "But why?" he urged. "Why? Give me one unanswerable reason." Loder shook off the hand and laughed, but below his laugh lay a suggestion of the other's excitement. Again the scene stirred him against his sounder judgment; though his reply, when it came, was firm enough. "As for reasons—" he said. "There are a hundred, if I had time to name them. Take it, for the sake of supposition, that I were to accept your offer. I should take my place in your house at—let us say at dinnertime. Your man gets me into your evening-clothes, and there, at the very start, you have the first suspicion set up. He has probably known you for years—known you until every turn of your appearance, voice, and manner is far more familiar to him than it is to you. There are no eyes like a servant's." "I have thought of that. My servant and my secretary can both be changed. I will do the thing thoroughly." Loder glanced at him in surprise. The madness had more method than he had believed. Then, as he still looked, a fresh idea struck him, and he laughed. "You have entirely forgotten one thing," he said. "You can hardly dismiss your wife." "My wife doesn't count." Again Loder laughed. "I'm afraid I scarcely agree. The complications would be slightly—slightly—" He paused. Chilcote's latent irritability broke out suddenly. "Look here," he said, "this isn't a chaffing matter, It may be moonshine to you, but it's reality to me." Again Loder took his face between his hands. "Don't ridicule the idea. I'm in dead earnest." Loder said nothing. "Think—think it over before you refuse." For a moment Loder remained motionless; then h rose suddenly, pushing back his chair. "Tush, man! You don't know what you say. The fact of your being married bars it. Can't you see that?" Again Chilcote caught his arm. "You misunderstand," he said. "You mistake the position. I tell you my wife and I are nothing to each other. She goes her way; I go mine. We have our own friends, our own rooms. Marriage, actual marriage, doesn't enter the question. We meet occasionally at meals, and at other people's houses; sometimes we go out together for the sake of appearances; beyond that, nothing. If you take up my life, nobody in it will trouble you less than Eve—I can promise that." He laughed unsteadily. Loder's face remained unmoved. "Even granting that," he said, "the thing is still impossible." "Why?" "There is the House. The position there would be untenable. A man is known there as he is known in his own club." He drew away from Chilcote's touch. "Very possibly. Very possibly." Chilcote laughed quickly and excitedly. "But what club is without its eccentric member? I am glad you spoke of that. I am glad you raised that point. It was a long time ago that I hit upon a reputation for moods as a shield for—for other things, and, the more useful it has become, the more I have let it grow. I tell you you might go down to the House to-morrow and spend the whole day without speaking to, even nodding to, a single man, and as long as you were I to outward appearances no one would raise an eyebrow. In the same way you might vote in my place ask a question, make a speech if you wanted to—" At the word speech Loder turned involuntarily For a fleeting second the coldness of his manner dropped and his face changed. Chilcote, with his nervous quickness of perception, saw the alteration, and a new look crossed his own face. "Why not?" he said, quickly. "You once had ambitions in that direction. Why not renew the ambitions?" "And drop back from the mountains into the gutter?" Loder smiled and slowly shook his head. "Better to live for one day than to exist for a hundred!" Chilcote's voice trembled with anxiety. For the third time he extended his hand and touched the other. This time Loder did not shake off the detaining; hand; he scarcely seemed to feel its pressure. "Look here." Chilcote's fingers tightened. "A little while ago you talked of influence. Here you can step into a position built by influence. You might do all you once hoped to do—" Loder suddenly lifted his head. "Absurd!" he said. "Absurd! Such a scheme was never carried through." "Precisely why it will succeed. People never suspect until they have a precedent. Will you consider it? At least consider it. Remember, if there is a risk, it is I who am running it. On your own showing, you have no position to jeopardize." The other laughed curtly. "Before I go to-night will you promise me to consider it?" "No." "Then you will send me your decision by wire to-morrow. I won't take your answer now." Loder freed his arm abruptly. "Why not?" he asked. Chilcote smiled nervously. "Because I know men—and men's temptations. We are all very strong till the quick is touched; then we all wince. It's morphia with one man, ambitions with another. In each case it's only a matter of sooner or later." He laughed in his satirical, unstrung way, and held out his hand. "'You have my address," he said. "Au revoir." Loder pressed the hand and dropped it. "Goodbye," he said, meaningly. Then he crossed the room quietly and held the door open. "Good-bye," he said again as the other passed him. As he crossed the threshold, Chilcote paused. "Au revoir," he corrected, with emphasis. Until the last echo of his visitor's steps had died away Loder stood with his hand on the door; then, closing it quietly, he turned and looked round the room. For a considerable space he stood there as if weighing the merits of each object; then very slowly he moved to one of the book-shelves, drew out May's Parliamentary Practice, and, carrying it to the desk, readjusted the lamp. <h2> VI </h2> All the next day Chilcote moved in a fever of excitement. Hot with hope one moment, cold with fever the next, he rushed with restless energy into every task that presented itself—only to drop it as speedily. Twice during the morning he drove to the entrance of Clifford's Inn, but each time his courage failed him and he returned to Grosvenor Square—to learn that the expected message from Loder had not come. It was a wearing condition of mind; but at worst it was scarcely more than an exaggeration of what his state had been for months, and made but little obvious difference in his bearing or manner. In the afternoon he took his place in the House, but, though it was his first appearance since his failure of two days ago, he drew but small personal notice. When he chose, his manner could repel advances with extreme effect, and of late men had been prone to draw away from him. In one of the lobbies he encountered Fraide surrounded by a group of friends. With his usual furtive haste he would have passed on; but, moving away from his party, the old man accosted him. He was always courteously particular in his treatment of Chilcote, as the husband of his ward and godchild. "Better, Chilcote?" he said, holding out his hand. At the sound of the low, rather formal tones, so characteristic of the old statesman, a hundred memories rose to Chilcote's mind, a hundred hours, distasteful in the living and unbearable in the recollection; and with them the new flash of hope, the new possibility of freedom. In a sudden rush of confidence he turned to his leader. "I believe I've found a remedy for my nerves," he said. "I—I believe I'm going to be anew man." He laughed with a touch of excitement, Fraide pressed his fingers kindly, "That is right," he said. "That is right. I called at Grosvenor Square this morning, but Eve told me your illness of the other day was not serious. She was very busy this morning—she could only spare me a quarter of an hour. She is indefatigable over the social side of your prospects. Chilcote. You owe her a large debt. A popular wife means a great deal to a politician." The steady eyes of his companion disturbed Chilcote. He drew away his hand. "Eve is unique," he said, vaguely. Fraide smiled. "That is right," he said again. "Admiration is too largely excluded from modern marriages." And with a courteous excuse he rejoined his friends. It was dinner-time before Chilcote could desert the House, but the moment departure was possible he hurried to Grosvenor Square. As he entered the house, the hall was empty. He swore irritably under his breath and pressed the nearest bell. Since his momentary exaltation in Fraide's presence, his spirits had steadily fallen, until now they hung at the lowest ebb. As he waited in unconcealed impatience for an answer to his summons, he caught sight of his man Allsopp at the head of the stairs. "Come here!" he called, pleased to find some one upon whom to vent his irritation. "Has that wire come for me?" "No, sir. I inquired five minutes back." "Inquire again." "Yes, sir." Allsopp disappeared. A second after his disappearance the bell of the hall door whizzed loudly. Chileote started. All sudden sounds, like all strong lights, affected him. He half moved to the door, then stopped himself with a short exclamation. At the same instant Allsopp reappeared. Chilcote turned on him excitedly. "What the devil's the meaning of this?" he said. "A battery of servants in the house and nobody to open the hall door!" Allsopp looked embarrassed. "Crapham is coming directly, sir. He only left the hall to ask Jeffries—" Chilcote turned. "Confound Crapham!" he exclaimed. "Go and open the door yourself." Allsopp hesitated, his dignity struggling with his obedience. As he waited, the bell sounded again. "Did you hear me?" Chilcote said. "Yes, sir." Allsopp crossed the hall. As the door was opened Chilcote passed his handkerchief from one hand to the other in the tension of hope and fear; then, as the sound of his own name in the shrill tones of a telegraph-boy reached his ears, he let the handkerchief drop to the ground. Allsopp took the yellow envelope and carried it to his master. "A telegram, sir," he said. "And the boy wishes to know if there is an answer." Picking up Chilcote's handkerchief, he turned aside with elaborate dignity. Chilcote's hands were so unsteady that he could scarcely insert his finger under the flap of the envelope. Tearing off a corner, he wrenched the covering apart and smoothed out the flimsy pink paper. The message was very simple, consisting of but seven words: "Shall expect you at eleven to-night.-LODER." He read it two or three times, then he looked up. "No answer," he said, mechanically; and to his own ears the relief in his voice sounded harsh and unnatural. Exactly as the clocks chimed eleven Chilcote mounted the stairs to Loder's rooms. But this time there was more of haste than of uncertainty in his steps, and, reaching the landing, he crossed it in a couple of strides and knocked feverishly on the door. It opened at once, and Loder stood before him. The occasion was peculiar. For a moment neither spoke; each involuntarily looked at the other with new eyes and under changed conditions. Each had assumed a fresh stand-point in the other's thought. The passing astonishment, the half-impersonal curiosity that had previously tinged their relationship, was cast aside, never to be reassumed. In each, the other saw himself—and something more. As usual, Loder was the first to recover himself. "I was expecting you," he said. "Won't you come in?" The words were almost the same as his words of the night before, but his voice had a different ring; just as his face, when he drew back into the room, had a different expression—a suggestion of decision and energy that had been lacking before. Chilcote caught the difference as he crossed the threshold, and for a bare second a flicker of something like jealousy touched him. But the sensation was fleeting. "I have to thank you!" he said, holding out his hand. He was too well bred to show by a hint that he understood the drop in the other's principles. But Loder broke down the artifice. "Let's be straight with each other, since everybody else has to be deceived," he said, taking the other's hand. "You have nothing to thank me for, and you know it. It's a touch of the old Adam. You tempted me, and I fell." He laughed, but below the laugh ran a note of something like triumph—the curious triumph of a man who has known the tyranny of strength and suddenly appreciates the freedom of a weakness. "You fully realize the thing you have proposed?" he added, in a different tone. "It's not too late to retract, even now." Chilcote opened his lips, paused, then laughed in imitation of his companion; but the laugh sounded forced. "My dear fellow," he said at last, "I never retract." "Never?" "No." "Then the bargain's sealed." Loder walked slowly across the room, and, taking up his position by the mantel-piece, looked at his companion. The similarity between them as they faced each other seemed abnormal, defying even the closest scrutiny. And yet, so mysterious is Nature even in her lapses, they were subtly, indefinably different. Chilcote was Loder deprived of one essential: Loder, Chilcote with that essential bestowed. The difference lay neither in feature, in coloring, nor in height, but in that baffling, illusive inner illumination that some call individuality, and others soul. Something of this idea, misted and tangled by nervous imagination, crossed Chilcote's mind in that moment of scrutiny, but he shrank from it apprehensively. "I—I came to discuss details," he said, quickly, crossing the space that divided him from his host. "Shall we—? Are you—?" He paused uneasily. "I'm entirely in your hands." Loder spoke with abrupt decision. Moving to the table, he indicated a chair, and drew another forward for himself. Both men sat down. Chilcote leaned forward, resting elbows on the table. "There will be several things to consider—" he began, nervously, looking across at the other. "Quite so." Loder glanced back appreciatively. "I thought about those things the better part of last night. To begin with, I must study your handwriting. I guarantee to get it right, but it will take a month." "A month!" "Well, perhaps three weeks. We mustn't make a mess of things." Chilcote shifted his position. "Three weeks!" he repeated. "Couldn't you—?" "No; I couldn't." Loder spoke authoritatively. "I might never want to put pen to paper, but, on the other hand, I might have to sign a check one day." He laughed. "Have you ever thought of that?—that I might have to, or want to, sign a check?" "No. I confess that escaped me." "You risk your fortune that you, may keep the place it bought for you?" Loder laughed again. "How do you know that I am not a blackguard?" he added. "How do you know that I won't clear out one day and leave you high and dry? What is to prevent John Chilcote from realizing forty or fifty thousand pounds and then making himself scarce?" "You won't do that," Chilcote said, with unusual decision. "I told you your weakness last night; and it wasn't money. Money isn't the rock you'll split over." "Then you think I'll split upon some rock? But that's beyond the question. To get to business again. You'll risk my studying your signature?" Chilcote nodded. "Right! Now item two." Loder counted on his: fingers. "I must know the names and faces of your men friends as far as I can. Your woman friends don't count. While I'm you, you will be adamant." He laughed again pleasantly. "But the men are essential—the backbone of the whole business." "I have no men friends. I don't trust the idea of friendship." "Acquaintances, then." Chilcote looked up sharply. "I think we score there," he said. "I have a reputation for absent-mindedness that will carry you anywhere. They tell me I can look through the most substantial man in the House as if he were gossamer, though I may have lunched with him the same day." Loder smiled. "By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Fate Must have been constructing this before either of us was born. It dovetails ridiculously. But I must know your colleagues—even if it's only to cut them. You'll have to take me to the House." "Impossible!" "Not at all!" Again the tone of authority fell to Loder. "I can pull my hat over my eyes and turn up my coat-collar. Nobody will notice me. We can choose the fall of the afternoon. I promise you 'twill be all right." "Suppose the likeness should leak out? It's a risk." Loder laughed confidently. "Tush, man! Risk is the salt of life. I must see you at your post, and I must see the men you work with." He rose, walked across the room, and took his pipe from the rack. "When I go in for a thing, I like to go in over head and ears," he added, as he opened his tobacco-jar. His pipe filled, he resumed his seat, resting his elbows on the table in unconscious imitation of Chilcote. "Got a match?" he said, laconically, holding out his band. In response Chilcote drew his match-box from his pocket and struck a light. As their hands touched, an exclamation escaped him. "By Jove!" he said, with a fretful mixture of disappointment and surprise. "I hadn't noticed that!" His eyes were fixed in annoyed interest on Loder's extended hand. Loder, following his glance, smiled. "Odd that we should both have overlooked it! It clean escaped my mind. It's rather an ugly scar." He lifted his hand till the light fell more fully on it. Above the second joint of the third finger ran a jagged furrow, the reminder of a wound that had once laid bare the bone. Chilcote leaned forward. "How did you come by it?" he asked. The other shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, that's ancient history." "The results are present-day enough. It's very awkward! Very annoying!" Chilcote's spirits, at all times overeasily played upon, were damped by this obstacle. Loder, still looking at his hand, didn't seem to hear. "There's only one thing to be done," he said. "Each wear two rings on the third finger of the left hand. Two rings ought to cover it." He made a speculative measurement with the stem of his pipe. Chilcote still looked irritable and disturbed. "I detest rings. I never wear rings." Loder raised his eyes calmly. "Neither do I," he said. "But there's no reason for bigotry." But Chilcote's irritability was started. He pushed back his chair. "I don't like the idea," he said. The other eyed him amusedly. "What a queer beggar you are!" he said. "You waive the danger of a man signing your checks and shy at wearing a piece of jewelry. I'll have a fair share of individuality to study." Chilcote moved restlessly. "Everybody knows I detest jewelry." "Everybody knows you are capricious. It's got to be the rings or nothing, so far as I make out." Chilcote again altered his position, avoiding the other's eyes. At last, after a struggle with himself, he looked up. "I suppose you're right!" he said. "Have it your own way." It was the first small, tangible concession to the stronger will. Loder took his victory quietly. "Good!" he said. "Then it's all straight sailing?" "Except for the matter of the—the remuneration." Chilcote hazarded the word uncertainly. There was a faint pause, then Loder laughed brusquely. "My pay?" The other was embarrassed. "I didn't want to put it quite like that." "But that was what you thought. Why are you never honest—even with yourself?" Chilcote drew his chair closer to the table. He did not attend to the other's remark, but his fingers strayed to his waistcoat pocket and fumbled there. 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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