But a feeling--an extraordinary, incomprehensible
feeling seems to urge me on. The same feeling that came to me
on the day we had tea together--the feeling that made me--that
almost made me believe--"
"Believe what?" The words escaped him without volition.
At sound of his voice she turned. "Believe that a miracle had
happened," she said--"that you had found strength--had freed
yourself."
"From morphia?"
"From morphia."
In the silence that followed, Loder lived through a century of
suggestion and indecision. His first feeling was for himself,
but his first clear thought was for Chilcote and their
compact. He stood, metaphorically, on a stone in the middle
of a stream, balancing on one foot, then the other; looking to
the right bank, then to the left. At last, as it always did,
inspiration came to him slowly. He realized that by one
plunge he might save both Chilcote and himself!
He crossed quickly to the fireplace and stood by Eve. "You
were right in your belief," he said. "For all that time from
the night you spoke to me of Fraide to the day you had tea in
this room--I never touched a drug.
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