Before him,
as he sat smoking, stretched a future of absolute nothingness;
and towards this blank future one portion of his consciousness
--a struggling and as yet scarcely sentient portion--pushed
him inevitably; while another--a vigorous, persistent, human
portion--cried to him to pause. So actual, so clamorous was
this silent mental combat that had raged unceasingly since
the moment of his renunciation that at last in physical
response to it he pushed back his chair.
"It's too late!" he said, aloud. "I'm a fool. It's too
late!"
Then abruptly, astonishingly, as though in direct response to
his spoken thought, the door opened and Chilcote walked into
the room.
Slowly Loder rose and stared at him. The feeling he
acknowledged to himself was anger; but below the anger a very
different sensation ran riotously strong.
And it was in time to this second feeling, this sudden,
lawless joy, that his pulses beat as he turned a cold face on
the intruder.
"Well?" he said, sternly.
But Chilcote was impervious to sternness.
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