As he entered, Greening rose with the same conciliatory haste that he had shown the night before.

Loder nodded to him.  “Early at work?” he said, pleasantly.

The little man showed instant, almost ridiculous relief.  “Good-morning, sir,” he said; “you too are early.  I rather feared your nerves troubled you after I left last night, for I found your letters still unopened this morning.  But I am glad to see you look so well.”

Loder promptly turned his back to the light.  “Oh, last night’s letters!” he said.  “To tell you the truth, Greening, my wife”—­his hesitation was very slight—­“my wife looked me up after you left, and we gossiped.  I clean forgot the post.”  He smiled in an explanatory way as he moved to the desk and picked up the letters.

With Greening’s eyes upon him, there was no time for scruples.  With very creditable coolness he began opening the envelopes one by one.  The letters were unimportant, and he passed them one after another to the secretary, experiencing a slight thrill of authority as each left his hand.  Again the fact that power is visible in little things came to his mind.

“Give me my engagement-book, Greening,” he said, when the letters had been disposed of.

The book that Greening handed him was neat in shape and bound, like Chilcote’s cigarette-case, in lizard-skin.

As Loder took it, the gold monogram “J.C.” winked at him in the bright morning light.  The incident moved his sense of humor.  He and the book were cooperators in the fraud, it seemed.  He felt an inclination to wink back.  Nevertheless, he opened it with proper gravity and skimmed the pages.

The page devoted to the day was almost full.  On every other line were jottings in Chilcote’s irregular hand, and twice among the entries appeared a prominent cross in blue pencilling.  Loder’s interest quickened as his eye caught the mark.  It had been agreed between them that only engagements essential to Chilcote’s public life need be carried through during his absence, and these, to save confusion, were to be crossed in blue pencil.  The rest, for the most part social claims, were to be left to circumstance and Loder’s inclination, Chilcote’s erratic memory always accounting for the breaking of trivial promises.

But Loder in his new energy was anxious for obligations; the desire for fresh and greater tests grew with indulgence.  He scanned the two lines with eagerness.  The first was an interview with Cresham, one of Chilcote’s supporters in Wark; the other an engagement to lunch with Fraide.  At the idea of the former his interest quickened, but at thought of the latter it quailed momentarily.  Had the entry been a royal command it would have affected him infinitely less.  For a space his assurance faltered; then, by coincidence, the recollection of Eve and Eve’s words of last night came back to him, and his mind was filled with a new sensation.