dy and found it,
and went with noiseless speed upstairs.

The door of Bertrand's room was unlatched, and he pushed it open without
ceremony. Blank darkness met him on the threshold, but a sound within
told him the room was tenanted. He switched on the light without delay,
entered, and shut the door.

He found Bertrand seated huddled on the edge of his bed, gasping horribly
for breath. He did not apparently hear Max enter. His close-cropped head
was bowed upon his arms. His hands were opening and closing convulsively.
He rocked to and fro almost with violence, but no sound beyond his
spasmodic breathing escaped him.

Max set down the brandy and took him by the shoulders. "Look here," he
said, "lie down. I'll help you."

Bertrand started a little at his touch, and Max had a glimpse of his
tortured face as he glanced up. "_Fermez la porte_!" he said, in a choked
whisper.

The door was already shut. Max wheeled and turned the key. "Now!" he
said.

He stooped over the Frenchman, and with the utmost care lifted him back
on to the pillows, unfastened his collar, then turned to fling the
windows as wide as they would go. The night air, fragrant with rain, blew
in, rustling the curtains. Bertrand turned his face towards it
instinctively. His lips were blue; they worked painfully, as if, between
his gasping, he were still trying to speak.

"Keep still!" Max said.

He mixed some brandy and water, and returning, slipped his arm under the
pillow. "Don't exert yourself," he said. "I'll do it all."

Very steadily he held the glass for Bertrand to drink. He could take but
very little at a time, so agonized was his struggle for breath. Max
waited through each pause, closely watching the drawn face, never missing
his opportunity. And gradually that little took effect. The anguish died
out of Bertrand's eyes, and he lay still.

Max slipped his arm from beneath the pillow and stood up. "Don't move,"
he said. "You're getting better."

"You--will stay--with me?" whispered Bertrand.

"Yes."

He drew up a chair, and sat down, took the Frenchman's wrist between his
fingers, and so remained for a long time.

Bertrand lay with closed eyes, his breathing still short and occasionally
difficult, but no longer agonized.

There came the sound of flying feet along the corridor, and an impatient
hand hammered on the door.

"Hullo, Bertrand! Are you all right? Chris wants to know," shouted a
boyish voice.

Bertrand started violent