I had every chance--and I
chucked every chance away."
There was a strained pause, then again Loder lifted his head.
"Morphia?" he said, very quietly.
Chilcote wheeled round with a scared gesture. "How did you
know that?" he asked, sharply.
The other smiled. "It wasn't guessing--it wasn't even
deduction. You told me, or as good as told me, in the fog
--when we talked of Lexington. You were unstrung that night,
and I--Well, perhaps one gets over-observant from living
alone." He smiled again.
Chilcote collapsed into his former seat and passed his
handkerchief across his forehead.
Loder watched him for a space; then he spoke. "Why don't you
pull up?" he said. "You are a young man still. Why don't you
drop the thing before it gets too late?" His face was
unsympathetic, and below the question in his voice lay a note
of hard ness.
Chilcote returned his glance. The suggestion of reproof had
accentuated his pallor. Under his excitement he looked ill
and worn.
"You might talk till doomsday, but every word would be
wasted," he said, irritably.
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