“Yes,” Max acknowledged grimly.  “It was a pity.  But his reason for coming was urgent.  And, after all, it made little difference.  It has only hastened by a few weeks the end that was bound to come.”

“You think that he will die?”

“Yes.”  Max spoke briefly.  His tone was one of indifference.

The Frenchman looked at him curiously.  “And what was his reason for coming?”

“It was a strictly private one,” Max said.  “This trial had nothing to do with it.  It will certainly never be made public, so I am not at liberty to speak of it.”

“And has he done—­that which he left England to do?”

“Not yet, sir, but he may do it—­if he lives long enough.”  Again Max’s tone was devoid of all feeling.  He still stood planted squarely against the closed door.

“And you think he will not do that?”

“On the contrary,” said Max, “I think he will—­if I am with him to keep him going.”

He spoke with true British doggedness, and a gleam of humour crossed the Frenchman’s face.  He made a brief bow.

“M. de Montville is fortunate to possess such a friend,” he said.

The corner of Max’s mouth went down.  “As to that,” he said dryly, “he might do a good deal better, and a very little worse.  Now, sir, what are you going to do?”

The Frenchman looked quizzical.  “It seems that I must take your advice, monsieur, or risk very serious consequences.  I shall leave a guard here during the night, and I must ask you to give me the key of this door. Apres cela”—­he shrugged his shoulders—­“nous verrons.”

Max turned without protest, opened the door, and withdrew the key.  He stood a moment listening before he turned back and laid it in the officer’s hand.  His face was grave.

“I think I must go to him,” he said.  “You will see to it that he is not disturbed?”

“No one will enter without your permission,” the Frenchman answered.  “And you, monsieur, will remain with him until I return.”

“I see,” said Max.  Again, for an instant, the fighting gleam was in his eyes, then carelessly he laughed.  “Well, I shan’t try to run away.  He and I are down in the same lot.  You would find it harder to turn me out than to keep me here.”

“I believe it, monsieur.”  There was no irony in the words or in the bow that accompanied them.  “And I repeat, he is a happy man who possesses your friendship.”

“Oh, rats!” said Max, and suddenly turned scarlet.  “You are talking through your hat, sir.  If you’ve quite done, I’ll go.”

It was the most boyish utterance he had permitted himself, and as he gave vent to it he was so obviously ill at ease that the Frenchman smiled.

“But you are younger than I thought,” he said.  “Will you shake hands?”

Max gave his customary hard grip.  They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, and separated with mutual respect.