The other glanced round. “Let's drop it,” he said. “It's so confoundedly obvious.” Then his tone changed. “Won't you smoke?” he asked.
“Thanks.” Chilcote began to fumble for his cigarettes.
But his host forestalled him. Taking a box from the mantel-piece, he held it out.
“My one extravagance!” he said, ironically. “My resources bind me to one; and I think I have made a wise selection. It is about the only vice we haven't to pay for six times over.” He glanced sharply at the face so absurdly like his own, then, lighting a fresh spill, offered his guest a light.
Chilcote moistened his cigarette and leaned forward. In the flare of the paper his face looked set and anxious, but Loder saw that the lips did not twitch as they had done on the previous occasion that he had given him a light, and a look of comprehension crossed his eyes.
“What will you drink? Or, rather, will you have a whiskey? I keep nothing else. Hospitality is one of the debarred luxuries.”
Chilcote shook his head. “I seldom drink. But don't let that deter you.”
Loder smiled. “I have one drink in the twenty-four hours—generally at two o'clock, when my night's work is done. A solitary man has to look where he is going.”
“You work till two?”
“Two—or three.”