e still strove to plead, though his
speech was no more than broken sound, inexpressibly painful to hear,
impossible to understand.

Mordaunt bent over him at last, all his hardness merged into pity. "My
dear fellow, don't!" he said. "Give yourself time. Haven't you anything
with you that will relieve this pain?"

Bertrand could not answer him. He made a feeble gesture with his right
hand; his left was clenched and rigid.

Mordaunt began to feel in his pockets; his touch was as gentle as a
woman's. But his search was unavailing. He only found an empty bottle.
Bertrand had evidently taken the remedy it had contained earlier in the
evening.

He turned to get some brandy, but Bertrand clutched at his sleeve and
detained him. "Max is here," he gasped. "Find Max! He--knows!"

His hand fell away, and Mordaunt went to the door. Holmes had returned to
his post in the passage. He came forward as the door opened.

"Mr. Max Wyndham is somewhere here," Mordaunt said. "Go and find him, and
bring him back with you--at once."

Holmes nodded comprehension and went.

Mordaunt turned back into the room. Bertrand had slipped to the floor
again, and was lying face downwards. His breathing was anguished, but he
made no other sound.

Mordaunt poured out some brandy and went to him. He knelt down by his
side and tried to administer it. But Bertrand could not drink. He could
only gasp. Yet after a moment his hand came out gropingly and touched
the man beside him.

Mordaunt took it and held it.

"You--believe me?" Bertrand jerked out.

"I believe you," Mordaunt answered very gravely.

"You--you forgive?"

Painfully the question came. It went into silence. But the hand that had
taken Bertrand's closed slowly and very firmly.

"_Et la petite--la petite--_" faltered Bertrand.

The silence endured for seconds. It seemed as if no answer would come.
And through it the man's anguished breathing came and went with a
dreadful pumping sound as of some broken machinery.

At last, slowly, as though he weighed each word before he uttered it,
Mordaunt spoke.

"You may trust her to me," he said.

And the hand in his stirred and gripped in gratitude, Bertrand de
Montville had not spent himself in vain.

CHAPTER VII

THE MESSENGER

"Roses!" said Chris. "How nice!"

She held the white blossoms that Jack had sent her against her face, and
smiled.

It was a very pathetic smile, a wan ghost of gaiety, possessing more of
brav