“What shall we drink to?” he said.
Loder methodically mixed his own drink and lifted the glass. “Oh, to the career of John Chilcote!” he answered.
For an instant the other hesitated. There was something prophetic in the sound of the toast. But he shook the feeling off and held up his glass.
“To the career of John Chilcote!” he said, with another unsteady laugh.
VII
It was a little less than three weeks since Chilcote and Loder had drunk their toast, and again Loder was seated at his desk.
His head was bent and his hand moved carefully as he traced line after line of meaningless words on a sheet of foolscap. Having covered the page with writing, he rose, moved to the centre-table, and compared his task with an open letter that lay there. The comparison seemed to please him; he straightened his shoulders and threw back his head in an attitude of critical satisfaction. So absorbed was he that, when a step sounded on the stairs outside, he did not notice it, and only raised his head when the door was thrown open unceremoniously. Even then his interest was momentary.
“Hullo!” he said, his eyes returning to their scrutiny of his task.
Chilcote shut the door and came hastily across the room. He looked ill and harassed. As he reached Loder he put out his hand nervously and touched his arm.