The
difference lay neither in feature, in coloring, nor in height,
but in that baffling, illusive inner illumination that some
call individuality, and others soul.
Something of this idea, misted and tangled by nervous
imagination, crossed Chilcote's mind in that moment of
scrutiny, but he shrank from it apprehensively.
"I--I came to discuss details," he said, quickly, crossing the
space that divided him from his host. "Shall we--? Are you--?"
He paused uneasily.
"I'm entirely in your hands." Loder spoke with abrupt decision.
Moving to the table, he indicated a chair, and drew another
forward for himself.
Both men sat down.
Chilcote leaned forward, resting elbows on the table. "There
will be several things to consider--" he began, nervously,
looking across at the other.
"Quite so." Loder glanced back appreciatively. "I thought
about those things the better part of last night. To begin
with, I must study your handwriting. I guarantee to get it
right, but it will take a month."
"A month!"
"Well, perhaps three weeks.
Pages:
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93