Loder turned. “Why in the devil's name—” he began; then again he halted. Something in Chilcote's drawn, excited face checked him. The strange sense of predestination that we sometimes see in the eyes of another struck cold upon him, chilling his last attempt at remonstrance. “What do you want me to do?” he substituted, in an ordinary voice.
The words steadied Chilcote. He laughed a little. The laugh was still shaky, but it was pitched in a lower key.
“You—you're quite right to pull me up. We have no time to waste. It must be one o'clock.” He pulled out his watch, then walked to the window and stood looking down into the shadowy court. “How quiet you are here!” he said. Then abruptly anew thought struck him and he wheeled back into the room. “Loder,” he said, quickly—-“Loder, I have an idea! While you are me, why shouldn't I be you? Why shouldn't I be John Loder instead of the vagrant we contemplated? It covers everything—it explains everything. It's magnificent! I'm amazed we never thought of it before.”
Loder was still beside the desk. “I thought of it,” he said, without looking back.
“And didn't suggest it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Loder said nothing and the other colored.
“Jealous of your reputation?” he said, satirically.
“I have none to be jealous of.”