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Updated: May 23, 2025
To deceive this woman, even to justify himself, had in the last halfhour become something sacrilegious. "The last three weeks must be buried," he said, hurriedly. "No man could free himself suddenly from from a vice." He broke off abruptly. He hated Chilcote; he hated himself. Then Eve's face, raised in distressed appeal, overshadowed all scruples.
Either his tongue or his resolution failed him, and for the instant he stood as silent and almost as ill at ease as his companion. Then all at once inspiration came to him, in the suggestion of a wellnigh forgotten argument by which he might influence Chilcote and save his own self-respect. "It's all over, Chilcote," he said, more quietly; "it has run itself out."
"I conclude," he began, quietly, "that your idea is to spread this wild, improbable story to ask people to believe that John Chilcote, whom they see before them, is not John Chilcote, but somebody else. Now you'll find that a harder task than you imagine. This is a sceptical world, and people are absurdly fond of their own eyesight. We are all journalists nowadays we all want facts.
The suggestion of reproof had accentuated his pallor. Under his excitement he looked ill and worn. "You might talk till doomsday, but every word would be wasted," he said, irritably. "I'm past praying for, by something like six years." "Then why come here?" Loder was pulling hard on his pipe. "I'm not a dealer in sympathy." "I don't require sympathy." Chilcote rose again.
At the word speech Loder turned involuntarily For a fleeting second the coldness of his manner dropped and his face changed. Chilcote, with his nervous quickness of perception, saw the alteration, and a new look crossed his own face. "Why not?" he said, quickly. "You once had ambitions in that direction. Why not renew the ambitions?" "And drop back from the mountains into the gutter?"
Never had he been so vehemently himself; never had Chilcote seemed so complete a shadow. As Eve seated herself, he moved forward and leaned over the back of her chair. The impulse that had filled him in his interview with Renwick, that had goaded him as he drove to the reception, was dominant again. "I tried to say something as we drove to the Bramfells' to-night," he began.
"It will leave you quite unenlightened," he added. "The name of a failure never spells anything." With another smile, partly amused, partly ironical, he stepped from the little island and disappeared into the throng of traffic. Chilcote stood for an instant gazing at the point where he had vanished; then, turning to the lamp, he lifted the card and read the name it bore: "Mr.
Chilcote drew away his hand and picked up the book that lay between them. "Other Men's Shoes!" he read. "A novel, of course?" She smiled. "Of course. Such a fantastic story. Two men changing identities." Chilcote rose and walked back to the mantel-piece. "Changing identities?" he said, with a touch of interest. "Yes.
That Chilcote should be conscious of the glories he had opened up seemed only natural; that he should show that consciousness in a becoming gravity seemed only right. For some seconds he made no attempt to disturb him; but at last his own irrepressible activity made silence unendurable. He caught up his pencil and tapped impatiently on the desk.
His sense of overpowering curiosity held him very still; but he made no effort to prompt his companion. Again Chilcote shifted his position agitatedly. "It, had to be done," he said, disjointedly. "I had to do it then and there. The things were on the bureau the pens and ink and telegraph forms. They tempted me." Loder laid down his glass suddenly.
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