Eve watched the progress of his labor, and in the depth of her own heart the watching came nearer to actual living than any activity she had known.  She was an on-looker—­but an on-looker who stood, as it were, on the steps of the arena, who, by a single forward movement, could feel the sand under her feet, the breath of the battle on her face; and in this knowledge she rested satisfied.

There were hours when Loder seemed scarcely conscious of her existence; but on those occasions she smiled in her serene way—­and went on waiting.  She knew that each day, before the afternoon had passed, he would come into her sitting-room, his face thoughtful, his hands full of books or papers, and, dropping into one of the comfortable, studious chairs, would ask laconically for tea.  This was her moment of triumph and recompense—­for the very unconsciousness of his coming doubled its value.  He would sit for half an hour with a preoccupied glance, or with keen, alert eyes fixed on the fire, while his ideas sorted themselves and fell into line.  Sometimes he was silent for the whole half-hour, sometimes he commented to himself as he scanned his notes; but on other and rarer occasions he talked, speaking his thoughts and his theories aloud, with the enjoyment of a man who knows himself fully in his depth, while Eve sipped her tea or stitched peacefully at a strip of embroidery.

On these occasions she made a perfect listener.  Here and there she encouraged him with an intelligent remark, but she never interrupted.  She knew when to be silent and when to speak; when to merge her own individuality and when to make it felt.  In these days of stress and preparation he came to her unconsciously for rest; he treated her as he might have treated a younger brother—­relying on her discretion, turning to her as by right for sympathy, comprehension, and friendship.  Sometimes, as they sat silent in the richly colored, homelike room, Eve would pause over her embroidery and let her thoughts spin momentarily forward—­spin towards the point where, the brunt of his ordeal passed, he must, of necessity, seek something beyond mere rest.  But there her thoughts would inevitably break off and the blood flame quickly into her cheek.

Meanwhile Loder worked persistently.  With each day that brought the crisis of Fraide’s scheme nearer, his activity increased—­and with it an intensifying of the nervous strain.  For if he had his hours of exaltation, he also had his hours of black apprehension.  It is all very well to exorcise a ghost by sheer strength of will, but one has also to eliminate the idea that gave it existence.  Lillian Astrupp, with her unattested evidence and her ephemeral interest, gave him no real uneasiness; but Chilcote and Chilcote’s possible summons were matters of graver consideration; and there were times when they loomed very dark and sinister:  What if at the very moment of fulfilment—?  But invariably he snapped the thread of the supposition and turned with fiercer ardor to his work of preparation.