He was mentally
shaken and distressed, though outwardly irreproachable, even
to the violets in the lapel of his coat--the violets that for
a week past had been brought each morning to the door of
Loder's rooms by Eve's maid. For one second, as Loder's eyes'
rested on the flowers, a sting of ungovernable jealousy shot
through him; then as suddenly it died away, superseded by
another feeling--a feeling of new, spontaneous joy. Worn by
Chilcote or by himself, the flowers were a symbol!
"Well?" he said again, in a gentler voice.
Chilcote had walked to the table and laid down his hat. His
face was white and the muscles of his lips twitched nervously
as he drew off his gloves.
"Thank Heaven, you're here!" he said, shortly. "Give me
something to drink."
In silence Loder brought out the whiskey and set it on the
table; then instinctively he turned aside. As plainly as
though he saw the action, he mentally figured Chilcote's
furtive glance, the furtive movement of his fingers to his
waistcoat-pocket, the hasty dropping of the tabloids into the
glass.
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