"I'll stick on till I get a wire--," he said. "Then I'll come
back and we'll reverse again." He slipped on the coat and
moved back towards the table. Now that the decisive moment
had come, it embarrassed him.
Scarcely knowing how to bring it to an end, he held out his
hand.
Chilcote took it, paling a little. "'Twill be all right!" he
said, with a sudden return of nervousness. "'Twill be all
right! And I've made it plain about--about the remuneration?
A hundred a week--besides all expenses."
Loder smiled again. "My pay? Oh yes, you've made it clear as
day. Shall we say good-night now?"
"Yes. Good-night."
There was a strange, distant note in Chilcote's voice, but the
other did not pretend to hear it. He pressed the hand he was
holding, though the cold dampness of it repelled him.
"Good-night," he said again.
"Good-night."
They stood for a moment, awkwardly looking at each other, then
Loder quietly disengaged his hand, crossed the room, and
passed through the door.
Chilcote, left standing alone in the middle of the room,
listened while the last sound of the other's footsteps was
audible on the uncarpeted stairs; then, with a furtive,
hurried gesture, he caught up the green-shaded lamp and passed
into Loder's bedroom.
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