There was a faint pause, then Loder laughed brusquely. “My pay?”
The other was embarrassed. “I didn't want to put it quite like that.”
“But that was what you thought. Why are you never honest—even with yourself?”
Chilcote drew his chair closer to the table. He did not attend to the other's remark, but his fingers strayed to his waistcoat pocket and fumbled there.
Loder saw the gesture. “Look here,” he said, “you are overtaxing yourself. The affair of the pay isn't pressing; we'll shelve it to another night. You look tired out.”
Chilcote lifted his eyes with a relieved glance. “Thanks. I do feel a bit fagged. If I may, I'll have that whiskey that I refused last night.”
“Why, certainly.” Loder rose at once and crossed to a cupboard in the wall. In silence he brought out whiskey, glasses, and a siphon of soda-water. “Say when!” he said, lifting the whiskey.
“Now. And I'll have plain water instead of soda, if it's all the same.”
“Oh, quite.” Loder recrossed the room. Instantly his back was turned, Chilcote drew a couple of tabloids from his pocket and dropped them into his glass. As the other came slowly back he laughed nervously.
“Thanks. See to your own drink now; I can manage this.” He took the jug unceremoniously, and, carefully guarding his glass from the light, poured in the water with excited haste.