He paused excitedly, and in the pause Loder found resolution. He shut his ears to the panic in Chilcote's voice, he closed his consciousness to the sight of his shaken face. With a surge of determination he rallied his theories. After all, he had himself and his own interests to claim his thought. At the moment Chilcote was a wreck, with no desire towards rehabilitation; but there was no guarantee that in an hour or two he might not have regained control over himself, and with it the inclination that had prompted his letter of the day before. No; he had himself to look to. The survival of the fittest was the true, the only principle. Chilcote had had intellect, education, opportunity, and Chilcote had deliberately cast them aside. Fortifying himself in the knowledge, he turned from the window and moved slowly back to the bed.
“Look here,” he began, “you wrote for me last night—” His voice was hard; he had come to fight.
Chilcote glanced up quickly. His mouth was drawn and there was anew anxiety in his eyes. “Loder!” he exclaimed, quickly. “Loder, come here! Come nearer!”
Reluctantly Loder obeyed. Stepping closer to the side of the bed, he bent down.
The other put up his hand and caught his arm. His fingers trembled and jerked. “I say, Loder,” he said, suddenly, “I—I've had such a beastly night—my nerves, you know—”
With a quick, involuntary disgust Loder drew back. “Don't you think we might shove that aside?” he asked.
But Chilcote's gaze had wandered from his face and strayed to the dressing-table; there it moved feverishly from one object to another.
“Loder,” he exclaimed, “do you see—can you see if there's a tube of tabloids on the mantel-shelf—or on the dressing-table?” He lifted himself nervously on his elbow and his eyes wandered uneasily about the room. “I—I had a beastly night; my nerves are horribly jarred; and I thought—I think—” He stopped.
With his increasing consciousness his nervous collapse became more marked. At the first moment of waking, the relief of an unexpected presence had surmounted everything else; but now, as one by one his faculties stirred, his wretched condition became patent. With a new sense of perturbation Loder made his next attack.
“Chilcote—” he began, sternly.