“From morphia?”
“From morphia.”
In the silence that followed, Loder lived through a century of suggestion and indecision. His first feeling was for himself, but his first clear thought was for Chilcote and their compact. He stood, metaphorically, on a stone in the middle of a stream, balancing on one foot, then the other; looking to the right bank, then to the left. At last, as it always did, inspiration came to him slowly. He realized that by one plunge he might save both Chilcote and himself!
He crossed quickly to the fireplace and stood by Eve. “You were right in your belief,” he said. “For all that time from the night you spoke to me of Fraide to the day you had tea in this room—I never touched a drug.”
She moved suddenly, and he saw her face. “John,” she said, unsteadily, “you—I—I have known you to lie to me—about other things.”
With a hasty movement he averted his head. The doubt, the appeal in her words shocked him. The whole isolation of her life seemed summed up in the one short sentence. For the instant he forgot Chilcote. With a reaction of feeling he turned to her again.
“Look at me!” he said, brusquely.
She raised her eyes.
“Do you believe I'm speaking the truth?”
She searched his eyes intently, the doubt and hesitancy still struggling in her face.