Loder took his pipe out of his mouth. “I am not so presumptuous,” he said, quietly.
For a space the other eyed him silently, as if trying to gauge his thoughts; then once more he broke into speech.
“Look here,” he said. “I came to-night to make a proposition. When I have made it you'll first of all jeer at it—as I jeered when I made it to myself; then you'll see its possibilities—as I did; then,”—he paused and glanced round the room nervously—“then you'll accept it—as I did.” In the uneasy haste of his speech his words broke off almost unintelligibly.
Involuntarily Loder lifted his head to retort, but Chilcote put up his hand. His face was set with the obstinate determination that weak men sometime exhibit.
“Before I begin I want to say that I am not drunk—that I am neither mad nor drunk.” He looked fully at his companion with his restless glance. “I am quite sane—quite reasonable.”
Again Loder essayed to speak, but again he put up his hand.
“No. Hear me out. You told me something of your story. I'll tell you something of mine. You'll be the first person, man or woman, that I have confided in for ten years. You say you have been treated shabbily. I have treated myself shabbily—which is harder to reconcile. I had every chance—and I chucked every chance away.”
There was a strained pause, then again Loder lifted his head.
“Morphia?” he said, very quietly.
Chilcote wheeled round with a scared gesture. “How did you know that?” he asked, sharply.