Very slowly Loder rose from his task. “Well?” he reiterated.
“Have you nothing to say?”
“Nothing, except that your story is unique, and that I suppose I am flattered by your confidence.” His voice was intentionally brusque.
Chilcote paid no attention to the voice. Taking a step forward, he laid his fingers on the lapel of Loder's coat.
“I have passed the stage where I can count upon myself,” he said, “and I want to count upon somebody else. I want to keep my place in the world's eyes and yet be free—”
Loder drew back involuntarily, contempt struggling with bewilderment in his expression.
Chilcote lifted his head. “By an extraordinary chance,” he said, “you can do for me what no other man in creation could do. It was suggested to me unconsciously by the story of a book—a book in which men change identities. I saw nothing in it at the time, but this morning, as I lay in bed, sick with yesterday's fiasco, it came back to me—it rushed over my mind in an inspiration. It will save me—and make you. I'm not insulting you, though you'd like to think so.”
Without remark Loder freed himself from the other's touch and walked back to his desk. His anger, his pride, and, against his will, his excitement were all aroused.
He sat down, leaned his elbow on the desk and took his face between his hands. The man behind him undoubtedly talked madness; but after five years of dreary sanity madness had a fascination. Against all reason it stirred and roused him. For one instant his pride and his anger faltered before it, then common-sense flowed back again and adjusted the balance.
“You propose,” he said, slowly, “that for a consideration of money I should trade on the likeness between us—and become your dummy, when you are otherwise engaged?”