he at Valpre. It had been in progress
for four days, and was likely to last for several more. The report he
read was from the pen of Trevor Mordaunt, an account clear and direct as
the man himself. So far the evidence had seemed to turn in Bertrand's
favour, and, his protestations notwithstanding, it was impossible not to
feel a quickening of the pulses as he realized this fact. Would they ever
send for him? He asked himself. Would they ever desire to do justice to
the man they had degraded?

It was evident that the writer of the account before him thought so.
However Mordaunt's opinion of the man himself had altered, his conviction
on the subject of his innocence of that primary crime had plainly
remained unshaken. He had not allowed himself to be biased by
subsequent events.

"And that is strange--that!" the Frenchman murmured, with his eyes
upon the article. "Perhaps _la petite Christine_ has convinced him.
But no--that is not probable."

He broke off as the door opened, and a quick smile of welcome flashed
across his face. He stretched out both hands to the new-comer.

"All right. Sit still," said Max.

He sauntered across the room, his coat hanging open and displaying
evening dress, and gave his hand into Bertrand's eager clasp. It was a
very cool hand, and strong with a vitality that seemed capable of
imparting itself.

He looked down at Bertrand with a queer glint of tenderness in his eyes.
"I shouldn't have come up at this hour," he said, "but I guessed you
would be awake. How goes it, old chap? Pretty bad, eh?"

"No, I am better," Bertrand said. "I am glad that you came up."

Max drew up a chair, and sat down beside his _protege_. For nearly three
weeks now Bertrand had been with him. A post-card written from a squalid
back-street lodging had been his first intimation that the Frenchman was
in London, and within two hours of receiving it Max had removed him to
the private nursing-home in which he himself was at that time domiciled.
For, notwithstanding his youth, Max Wyndham was a privileged person, and
owned as his greatest friend one of the most distinguished physicians in
London.

His natural brilliance had brought him in the first place to the great
man's notice; and though he was but a medical student, his foot was
already firmly planted upon the ladder of success. There was little doubt
that one day--and that probably not many years distant--Max Wyndham would
be a great man too. Even as it was,