Montville turned his head upon the sofa-cushion, and
opened his heavy eyes. He seemed to be listening for something, but
evidently he considered that he had listened in vain, for his eyelids
began to droop again almost immediately. He seemed to drift into a state
of semi-consciousness.

The evening sunlight was screened from his face by blinds, but even so
its deep shadows were painfully distinct. He looked unutterably tired.

There came a slight sound at the door, and again his eyes were open. In a
moment, with incredible briskness, he was off the couch and half-way
across the room before, seized with sudden dizziness, he began to falter.

Trevor Mordaunt, entering, made a dive forward, and held him up.

"Now, my friend, lie down again," he said, "and stay down till further
orders."

"Ah, pardon me!" the Frenchman murmured, clutching vaguely for support.
"I am strong, more strong than you think. I--I--"

"Lie down," Trevor reiterated. "You don't give yourself a chance, man.
You forget you have been a helpless invalid for the past ten days. There!
How's that? Comfortable?"

"You are always so good--so good!" panted de Montville very earnestly. "I
know not how to thank you--how to repay."

"Just obey orders, that's all," said the Englishman, faintly smiling. "I
want to get you well. No, you are not well yet--say what you like, you're
not. I've let you get up for an experiment, but if you don't behave
yourself back you go. Now lie still, quite still, while I open my
letters. When you have quite recovered your breath we will have a talk."

He had assumed this tone of authority from the outset, and de Montville
had submitted, in the first place because he was too ill to do otherwise,
and later because, somewhat to his surprise, he found himself impelled
thereto by his own inclination. It did not in any fashion wound his
pride, this kindly mastery. He wondered at himself for tolerating it, and
yet he offered no resistance. It was too great a thing to resist.

So, still panting a little, he subsided obediently upon Mordaunt's sofa
while the latter busied himself with his correspondence.

There was a considerable pile of letters. Mordaunt opened one after
another with the deliberation that marked most of his actions, but the
pile dwindled very quickly notwithstanding. Some letters he dropped at
once into a waste-paper basket, upon others he scribbled a few notes;
two or three he laid aside for further consideration.