As he stood hesitating a voice from the sitting-room
settled the question.
"Who's there?" it called, irritably. "What do you want?"
Without further ceremony the intruder pushed the door open and
entered the room. As he did so he drew a quick breath
--whether of disappointment or relief it was impossible to
say. Whether he had hoped for or dreaded it, Chilcote was
conscious.
As Loder entered he was sitting by the cheerless grate, the
ashes of yesterday's fire showing charred and dreary where the
sun touched them. His back was to the light, and about his
shoulders was an old plaid rug. Behind him on the table stood
a cup, a teapot, and the can of milk; farther off a kettle was
set to boil upon a tiny spirit-stove.
In all strong situations we are more or less commonplace.
Loder's first remark as he glanced round the disordered room
seemed strangely inefficient.
"Where's Robins?" he asked, in a brusque voice. His mind
teemed with big considerations, yet this was his first
involuntary question.
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