Chilcote had started at the entrance of his visitor; now he
sat staring at him, his hands holding the arms of his chair.
"Where's Robins?" Loder asked again.
"I don't know. She--I--We didn't hit it off. She's gone
--went yesterday." He shivered and drew the rug about him.
"Chilcote--" Loder began, sternly; then he paused. There was
something in the other's look and attitude that arrested him.
A change of expression passed over his own face; he turned
about with an abrupt gesture, pulled off his coat and threw it
on a chair; then crossing deliberately to the fireplace, he
began to rake the ashes from the grate.
Within a few minutes he had a fire crackling where the bed of
dead cinders had been, and, having finished the task, he rose
slowly from his knees, wiped his hands, and crossed to the
table. On the small spirit-stove the kettle had boiled and
the cover was lifting and falling with a tinkling sound.
Blowing out the flame, Loder picked up the teapot, and with
hands that were evidently accustomed to the task set about
making the tea.
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