“You were lucky.” Chilcote turned up the collar of his coat. “It was an atrocious fog, as black as this, but more universal. I remember it well. It was the night Lexington made his great sugar speech. Some of us were found on Lambeth Bridge at three in the morning, having left the House at twelve.”
Chilcote seldom indulged in reminiscences, but this conversation with an unseen companion was more like a soliloquy than a dialogue. He was almost surprised into an exclamation when the other caught up his words.
“Ah! The sugar speech!” he said. “Odd that I should have been looking it up only yesterday. What a magnificent dressing-up of a dry subject it was! What a career Lexington promised in those days!”
Chilcote changed his position.
“You are interested in the muddle down at Westminster?” he asked, sarcastically.
“I—?” It was the turn of the stranger to draw back a step. “Oh, I read my newspaper with the other five million, that is all. I am an outsider.” His voice sounded curt; the warmth that admiration had brought into it a moment before had frozen abruptly.
“An outsider!” Chilcote repeated. “What an enviable word!”
“Possibly, to those who are well inside the ring. But let us go back to Lexington. What a pinnacle the man reached, and what a drop he had! It has always seemed to me an extraordinary instance of the human leaven running through us all. What was the real cause of his collapse?” he asked, suddenly. “Was it drugs or drink? I have often wished to get at the truth.”
Again Chilcote changed his attitude.
“Is truth ever worth getting at?” he asked, irrelevantly.