Before his compact with
Loder this old life had been a net about his feet; now the
meshes seemed to have narrowed, the net itself to have spread
till it smothered his whole being. His own household--his own
rooms, even--offered no sanctuary. The presence of another
personality tinged the atmosphere. It was preposterous, but
it was undeniable. The lay figure that he had set in his
place had proved to be flesh and blood--had usurped his life,
his position, his very personality, by sheer right of
strength. As he walked along Bond Street in the first
sunshine of the year, jostled by the well-dressed crowd, he
felt a pariah.
He revolted at the new order of things, but the revolt was a
silent one-the iron of expediency had entered into his soul.
He dared not jeopardize Loder's position, because he dared not
dispense with Loder. The door that guarded his vice drew him
more resistlessly with every indulgence, and Loder's was the
voice that called the "Open Sesame!"
He walked on aimlessly. He had been but five days at home,
and already the quiet, grass-grown court of Clifford's Inn,
the bare staircase, the comfortless privacy of Loder's rooms
seemed a haven of refuge.
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