We drove straight to Dalrymple’s rooms, and, going in with a pass-key, went up without disturbing the concierge.  Arrived at home, my friend’s first act was to open his buffetier and take out a loaf, a pate de foie gras, and a bottle of wine.  I could not eat a morsel; but he supped (or breakfasted) with a capital appetite; insisted that I should lie down on his bed for two or three hours; and slipping into his dressing-gown, took out his desk and cash-box, and settled himself to a regular morning’s work.

“I hope to get a nap myself before starting,” said he.  “I have not many debts, and I made my will the day after I married—­so I have but little to transact in the way of business.  A few letters to write—­a few to burn—­a trifle or two to seal up and direct to one or two fellows who may like a souvenir,—­that is the extent of my task!  Meanwhile, my dear boy, get what rest you can.  It will never do to be shaky and pale on the field, you know.”

I went, believing that I should be less in his way; and, lying down in my clothes, fell into a heavy sleep, from which, after what seemed a long time, I woke suddenly with the conviction that it was just ten o’clock.  To start up, look at my watch, find that it was only a quarter to seven and fall profoundly asleep again, was the work of only a few minutes.  At the end of another half-hour I woke with the same dread, and with the same result; and so on twice or thrice after, till at a quarter to nine I jumped up, plunged my head into a basin of cold water, and went back to the sitting-room.

I found him lying forward upon the table, fast asleep, with his head resting on his hands.  Some half-dozen letters lay folded and addressed beside him—­one directed to his wife.  A little pile of burnt paper fluttered on the hearth.  His pistols were lying close by in their mahogany case, the blue and white steel relieved against the crimson-velvet lining.  He slept so soundly, poor fellow, that I could with difficulty make up my mind to wake him.  Once roused, however, he was alert and ready in a moment, changed his coat, took out a new pair of lavender gloves, hailed a cab from the window, and bade the driver name his own fare if he got us to the terrace at Bellevue by five minutes before ten.

“I always like to be before my time in a matter of this kind, Damon,” said he.  “It’s shabby to be merely punctual when one has, perhaps, not more than a quarter of an hour to live.  By-the-by, here are my keys.  Take them, in case of accident.  You will find a copy of my will in my desk—–­the original is with my lawyer.  The letters you will forward, according to the addresses; and in my cash-box you will find a paper directed to yourself.”

I bent my head.  I would not trust myself to speak.  “As for the letter to Helene—­to my wife,” he said, turning his face away, “will you—­will you deliver that with your own hands?”

“I will.”