Chilcote opened his lips, paused, then laughed in imitation of his companion; but the laugh sounded forced.
“My dear fellow,” he said at last, “I never retract.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Then the bargain's sealed.”
Loder walked slowly across the room, and, taking up his position by the mantel-piece, looked at his companion. The similarity between them as they faced each other seemed abnormal, defying even the closest scrutiny. And yet, so mysterious is Nature even in her lapses, they were subtly, indefinably different. Chilcote was Loder deprived of one essential: Loder, Chilcote with that essential bestowed. The difference lay neither in feature, in coloring, nor in height, but in that baffling, illusive inner illumination that some call individuality, and others soul.
Something of this idea, misted and tangled by nervous imagination, crossed Chilcote's mind in that moment of scrutiny, but he shrank from it apprehensively.
“I—I came to discuss details,” he said, quickly, crossing the space that divided him from his host. “Shall we—? Are you—?” He paused uneasily.
“I'm entirely in your hands.” Loder spoke with abrupt decision. Moving to the table, he indicated a chair, and drew another forward for himself.
Both men sat down.