“Your friends?”
Loder laid down his pipe. “I told you I was twenty-five,” he said, with the tinge of humor that sometimes crossed his manner. “Doesn't that explain things? I had never taken favors in prosperity; a change of fortune was not likely to alter my ways. As I have said, I was twenty-five.” He smiled. “When I realized my position I sold all my belongings with the exception of a table and a few books—which I stored. I put on a walking-suit and let my beard grow; then, with my entire capital in my pocket, I left England without saying good-bye to any one.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, for six years. I wandered half over Europe and through a good part of Asia in the time.”
“And then?”
“Then? Oh, I shaved off the beard and came back to London!” He looked at Chilcote, partly contemptuous, partly amused at his curiosity.
But Chilcote sat staring in silence. The domination of the other's personality and the futility of his achievements baffled him.
Loder saw his bewilderment. “You wonder what the devil I came into the world for,” he said. “I sometimes wonder the same myself.”
At his words a change passed over Chilcote. He half rose, then dropped back into his seat.
“You have no friends?” he said. “Your life is worth nothing to you?”