Loder was still studying the flaring poster. At the other's words he turned sharply. Something in Lakely's voice, something in his manner, arrested him. A tinge of color crossed his face.
“Reality?” he said. “What do you mean?”
For a further space his companion watched him; then with a rapid movement he tilted back his chair.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes; old Fraide's instincts are never far out. He's quite right. You're the man!”
Still quietly, but with a strange underglow of excitement, Loder left the fire, and, coming forward, took a chair at Lakely's desk.
“Do you mind telling me what you're driving at?” he asked, in his old, laconic voice.
Lakely still scrutinized him with an air of brisk satisfaction; then with a gesture of finality he tossed his cigar away.
“My dear chap,” he said, “there's going to be a breach somewhere—and Fraide says you're the man to step in and fill it! You see, five years ago, when things looked lively on the Gulf and the Bundar Abbas business came to light, you did some promising work; and a reputation like that sticks to a man—even when he turns slacker! I won't deny that you've slacked abominably,” he added, as Loder made an uneasy movement, “but slacking has different effects. Some men run to seed, others mature. I had almost put you down on the black list, but I've altered my mind in the last two months.”
Again Loder stirred in his seat. A host of emotions were stirring in his mind. Every word wrung from Lakely was another stimulus to pride, another subtle tribute to the curious force of personality.
“Well?” he said. “Well?”