Chilcote eyed him doubtfully. Then recollection took the place of doubt, and a change passed over his expression. “It wasn't my fault,” he began, hastily. “On my soul, it wasn't! It was Crapham's beastly fault for showing her into the morning-room—”
Loder kept silent. His curiosity had flared into sudden life at the other's words, but he feared to break the shattered train of thought even by a word.
In the silence Chilcote moved uneasily. “You see,” he went on, at last, “when I was here with you I—I felt strong. I—I—” He stopped.
“Yes, yes. When you were here with me you felt strong.”
“Yes, that's it. While I was here, I felt I could do the thing. But when I went home—when I went up to my rooms—” Again he paused, passing his handkerchief across his forehead.
“When you went up to your rooms?” Loder strove hard to keep his control.
“To my room—? Oh, I—I forget about that. I forget about the night” He hesitated confusedly. “All I remember is the coming down to breakfast next morning—this morning—at twelve o'clock—”
Loder turned to the table and poured himself out some whiskey. “Yes,” he acquiesced, in a very quiet voice.
At the word Chilcote rose from his seat. His disquietude was very evident. “Oh, there was breakfast on the table when I came down-stairs—breakfast with flowers and a horrible, dazzling glare of sun. It was then, Loder, as I stood and looked into the room, that the impossibility of it all came to me—that I knew I couldn't stand it—couldn't go on.”
Loder swallowed his whiskey slowly. His sense of overpowering curiosity held him very still; but he made no effort to prompt his companion.