“I mean it,” he said, slowly. “It's over; we've come to the end.”
“But why?” Chilcote articulated, blankly. “Why? Why?” In his confusion he could think of no better word.
“Because I throw it up. My side of the bargain's off!”
Again Chilcote's lips parted stammeringly. The apathy caused by physical exhaustion and his recently administered drug was passing from him; the hopelessly shattered condition of mind and body was showing through it like a skeleton through a thin covering of flesh.
“But why?” he said again. “Why?”
Still Loder avoided the frightened surprise of his, eyes. “Because I withdraw,” he answered, doggedly.
Then suddenly Chilcote's tongue was loosened. “Loder,” he cried, excitedly, “you can't do it! God! man, you can't do it!” To reassure himself he laughed—a painfully thin echo of his old, sarcastic laugh. “If it's a matter of greater opportunity—” he began, “of more money—”
But Loder turned upon him.
“Be quiet!” he said, so menacingly that the other stopped. Then by an effort he conquered himself, “It's not a matter of money, Chilcote,” he said, quietly; “it's a matter of necessity.” He brought the word out with difficulty.
Chilcote glanced up. “Necessity?” he repeated. “How? Why?”