Loder laughed confidently. “Tush, man! Risk is the salt of life. I must see you at your post, and I must see the men you work with.” He rose, walked across the room, and took his pipe from the rack. “When I go in for a thing, I like to go in over head and ears,” he added, as he opened his tobacco-jar.
His pipe filled, he resumed his seat, resting his elbows on the table in unconscious imitation of Chilcote.
“Got a match?” he said, laconically, holding out his band.
In response Chilcote drew his match-box from his pocket and struck a light. As their hands touched, an exclamation escaped him.
“By Jove!” he said, with a fretful mixture of disappointment and surprise. “I hadn't noticed that!” His eyes were fixed in annoyed interest on Loder's extended hand.
Loder, following his glance, smiled. “Odd that we should both have overlooked it! It clean escaped my mind. It's rather an ugly scar.” He lifted his hand till the light fell more fully on it. Above the second joint of the third finger ran a jagged furrow, the reminder of a wound that had once laid bare the bone.
Chilcote leaned forward. “How did you come by it?” he asked.
The other shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, that's ancient history.”
“The results are present-day enough. It's very awkward! Very annoying!” Chilcote's spirits, at all times overeasily played upon, were damped by this obstacle.
Loder, still looking at his hand, didn't seem to hear. “There's only one thing to be done,” he said. “Each wear two rings on the third finger of the left hand. Two rings ought to cover it.” He made a speculative measurement with the stem of his pipe.