Loder looked up. “What is it?” he asked. “Any new development?”
Chilcote tried to smile. “Yes,” he said, huskily; “it's come.”
Loder freed his arm. “What? The end of the world?”
“No. The end of me.” The words came jerkily, the strain that had enforced them showing in every syllable.
Still Loder was uncomprehending; he could not, or would not, understand.
Again Chilcote caught and jerked at his sleeve. “Don't you see? Can't you see?”
“No.”
Chilcote dropped the sleeve and passed his handkerchief across his forehead. “It's come,” he repeated. “Don't you understand? I want you.” He drew away, then stepped back again anxiously. “I know I'm taking you unawares,” he said. “But it's not my fault. On my soul, it's not! The thing seems to spring at me and grip me—” He stopped, sinking weakly into a chair.
For a moment Loder stood erect and immovable—then, almost with reluctance, his glance turned to the figure beside him.
“You want me to take your place to-night—without preparation?” His voice was distinct and firm, but it was free from contempt.