“Drink this!” he said, laconically.  “The fire will be up presently.”

Chilcote extended a cold and shaky hand.  “You see—­” he began.

But Loder checked him almost savagely.  “I do—­as well as though I had followed you from Piccadilly last night!  You’ve been hanging about, God knows where, till the small hours of the morning; then you’ve come back—­slunk back, starving for your damned poison and shivering with cold.  You’ve settled the first part of the business, but the cold has still to be reckoned with.  Drink the tea.  I’ve something to say to you.”  He mastered his vehemence, and, walking to the window, stood looking down into the court.  His eyes were blank, his face hard; his ears heard nothing but the faint sound of Chilcote’s swallowing, the click of the cup against his teeth.

For a time that seemed interminable he stood motionless; then, when he judged the tea finished, he turned slowly.  Chilcote had drawn closer to the fire.  He was obviously braced by the warmth; and the apathy that hung about him was to some extent dispelled.  Still moving slowly, Loder went towards him, and, relieving him of the empty cup, stood looking down at him.

“Chilcote,” he said, very quietly, “I’ve come to fell you that the thing must end.”

After he spoke there was a prolonged pause; then, as if shaken with sudden consciousness, Chilcote rose.  The rug dropped from one shoulder and hung down ludicrously; his hand caught the back of the chair for support; his unshaven face looked absurd and repulsive in its sudden expression of scared inquiry.  Loder involuntarily turned away.

“I mean it,” he said, slowly.  “It’s over; we’ve come to the end.”

“But why?” Chilcote articulated, blankly.  “Why?  Why?” In his confusion he could think of no better word.

“Because I throw it up.  My side of the bargain’s off!”

Again Chilcote’s lips parted stammeringly.  The apathy caused by physical exhaustion and his recently administered drug was passing from him; the hopelessly shattered condition of mind and body was showing through it like a skeleton through a thin covering of flesh.

“But why?” he said again.  “Why?”

Still Loder avoided the frightened surprise of his, eyes.  “Because I withdraw,” he answered, doggedly.

Then suddenly Chilcote’s tongue was loosened.  “Loder,” he cried, excitedly, “you can’t do it!  God! man, you can’t do it!” To reassure himself he laughed—­a painfully thin echo of his old, sarcastic laugh.  “If it’s a matter of greater opportunity—­” he began, “of more money—­”

But Loder turned upon him.

“Be quiet!” he said, so menacingly that the other stopped.  Then by an effort he conquered himself, “It’s not a matter of money, Chilcote,” he said, quietly; “it’s a matter of necessity.”  He brought the word out with difficulty.

Chilcote glanced up.  “Necessity?” he repeated.  “How?  Why?”