The Masquerader | Page 5

the case to the pale face with the square jaw, straight mouth, and level eyebrows drawn low over the gray eyes. When at last the card was held out to him he took it without remark and slipped it into his pocket.
Chilcote looked at him eagerly. "Now the exchange?" he said.
For a second the stranger did not respond. Then, almost unexpectedly, he smiled.
"After all, if it amuses you--" he said; and, searching in his waistcoat pocket, he drew out the required card.
"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. John Loder, 13 Clifford's Inn."

II
On the morning following the night of fog Chilcote woke at nine. He woke at the moment that his man Allsopp tiptoed across the room and laid the salver with his early cup of tea on the table beside the bed.
For several seconds he lay with his eyes shut; the effort of opening them on a fresh day--the intimate certainty of what he would see on opening them--seemed to weight his lids. The heavy, half-closed curtains; the blinds severely drawn; the great room with its splendid furniture, its sober coloring, its scent of damp London winter; above all, Allsopp, silent, respectful, and respectable--were things to dread.
A full minute passed while he still feigned sleep. He heard Allsopp stir discreetly, then the inevitable information broke the silence:
"Nine o'clock, sir!"
He opened his eyes, murmured something, and closed them again.
The man moved to the window, quietly pulled back the curtains and half drew the blind.
"Better night, sir, I hope?" he ventured, softly.
Chilcote had drawn the bedclothes over his face to screen himself from the daylight, murky though it was.
"Yes," he responded. "Those beastly nightmares didn't trouble me, for once." He shivered a little as at some recollection. "But don't talk--don't remind me of them. I hate a man who has no originality." He spoke sharply. At times he showed an almost childish irritation over trivial things.
Allsopp took the remark in silence. Crossing the wide room, he began to lay out his master's clothes. The action affected Chilcote to fresh annoyance.
"Confound it!" he said. "I'm sick of that routine: I can see you laying out my winding-sheet the day of my burial. Leave those things. Come back in half an hour."
Allsopp allowed himself one glance at his master's figure huddled in the great bed; then, laying aside the coat he was holding, he moved to the door. With his: fingers on the handle he paused.
"Will you breakfast in your own room, sir--or down-stairs?"
Chilcote drew the clothes more tightly round his shoulders. "Oh, anywhere--nowhere!" he said. "I don't care."
Allsopp softly withdrew.
Left to himself, Chilcote sat up in bed and lifted the salver to his knees. The sudden movement jarred him physically; he drew a handkerchief from under the pillow and wiped his forehead; then he held his hand to the light and studied it. The hand looked sallow and unsteady. With a nervous gesture he thrust the salver back upon the table and slid out of bed.
Moving hastily across the room, he stopped before one of the tall wardrobes and swung the door open; then after a furtive glance around the room he thrust his hand into the recesses of a shelf and fumbled there.
The thing he sought was evidently not hard to find. for almost at once he withdrew his hand and moved from the wardrobe to a table beside the fireplace, carrying a small glass tube filled with tabloids.
On the table were a decanter, a siphon, and a water-jug. Mixing some whiskey, he uncorked the tube, again he glanced apprehensively towards the door, then with a very nervous hand dropped two tabloids into the glass.
While they dissolved he stood with his hand on the table and his eyes fixed on the floor, evidently restraining his impatience. Instantly they had disappeared he seized the glass and drained it at a draught, replaced the bottle in the wardrobe, and, shivering slightly in the raw air, slipped back into bed.
When Allsopp returned he was sitting up, a cigarette between his lips, the teacup standing empty on the salver. The nervous irritability had gone from his manner. He no longer moved jerkily, his eyes looked brighter, his pale skin more healthy.
"Ah, Allsopp," he said, "there are some moments in life, after all. It isn't all blank wall."
"I ordered breakfast in the small morning-room, sir," said Allsopp, without a change of expression.
Chilcote breakfasted at ten. His appetite, always fickle, was particularly uncertain in the early hours. He helped himself