He lifted
his eyelids and looked at his companion. "Hand it to me," he
said, quickly. "Give it to me. Give it to me, Loder. Quick
as you can! There's a glass on the table and some whiskey and
water. The tabloids dissolve, you know--" In his new
excitement he held out his hand.
But Loder stayed motionless. He had come to fight, to demand,
to plead--if need be--for the one hour for which he had lived;
the hour that was to satisfy all labor, all endeavor, all
ambition. With dogged persistence he made one more essay.
"Chilcote, you wrote last night to recall me--" Once again he
paused, checked by a new interruption. Sitting up again,
Chilcote struck out suddenly with his left hand in a rush of
his old irritability.
"Damn you!" he cried, suddenly, "what are you talking about?
Look at me! Get me the stuff. I tell you it's imperative."
In his excitement his breath failed and he coughed. At the
effort his whole frame was shaken.
Loder walked to the dressing-table, then back to the bed.
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