“Yes; yes, I do.” Chilcote spoke without looking up.
“That you may spend the night in morphia—this and other nights?”
Chilcote lifted a flushed, unsettled face. “You have no right to preach. You accepted the bargain.”
Loder raised his head quickly. “I never—” he began; then both his face and voice altered. “You are quite right,” he said, coldly. “You won't have to complain again.”
Chilcote stirred uncomfortably. “My dear chap,” he said, “I meant no offence. It's merely—”
“Your nerves. I know. But come to business. What am I to do?”
Chilcote rose excitedly. “Yes, business. Let's come to business. It's rough on you, taking you short like this. But you have an erratic person to deal with. I've had a horrible day—a horrible day.” His face had paled again, and in the green lamplight it possessed a grayish hue. Involuntarily Loder turned away.
Chilcote watched him as he passed to the desk and began mechanically sorting papers. “A horrible day!” he repeated. “So bad that I daren't face the night. You have read De Quincey?” he asked, with a sudden change of tone.
“Yes.”
“Then read him again and you'll understand. I have all the horrors—without any art. I have no 'Ladies of Sorrow,' but I have worse monsters than his 'crocodile'.” He laughed unpleasantly.