Chilcote started. "Yes--no--that is, yes," he stammered.
Loder moved round the table. "Something's gone wrong," he
repeated. "And you've come to tell me."
The tone unnerved Chilcote; he suddenly dropped into a chair.
"It--it wasn't my fault," he began. "I--I have had a horrible
time!"
Loder's lips tightened. "Yes," he said, "yes--I understand."
The other glanced up with a gleam of his old suspicion "'Twas
all my nerves, Loder--"
"Of course. Yes, of course." Loder's interruption was curt.
Chilcote eyed him doubtfully. Then recollection took the
place of doubt, and a change passed over his expression. "It
wasn't my fault," he began, hastily. "On my soul, it wasn't!
It was Crapham's beastly fault for showing her into the
morning-room--"
Loder kept silent. His curiosity had flared into sudden life
at the other's words, but he feared to break the shattered
train of thought even by a word.
In the silence Chilcote moved uneasily. "You see," he went
on, at last, "when I was here with you I--I felt strong.
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