therwise,
for I am very tired. I am old too--much older than even you can
comprehend. I have undergone the suffering of a lifetime, and I am too
tired to suffer much more. But--look you, Max--I do not want to make
suffer those my friends whom I shall leave behind. That is why I pray
that the end may come quick--quick. And, till then--I will bear my pain
alone."

"And if you can't?" said Max. "If it gets too much for you?"

"The good God will give me strength," the Frenchman said steadfastly.

Max shrugged his shoulders. "It's your affair, not mine. But I don't see
why you shouldn't tell Trevor. He will be hurt by and bye if you don't."

But Bertrand instantly negatived the suggestion. "He is already
much--much too good to me. I cannot--I will not--be further indebted to
him. My services are almost nominal now. Also"--he paused--"if I tell
him, I cannot remain here longer, and--I have made a promise that for the
present I will remain."

Max's shrewd eyes took another quick look at him. "For Chris's benefit, I
suppose?" he said, and though his tone was a question, it scarcely
sounded as if he expected an answer.

Bertrand's eyes met his for an instant in a single lightning glance of
interrogation. They fell again immediately, and there followed a
considerable pause before he made reply: "I do not abandon my friends
when they are troubled and they have need of me."

"Does Chris need you?" Max asked ruthlessly.

Again that swift glance shooting upwards; again a lengthy pause. Then,
"_Vous avez la vue percante_," Bertrand remarked in a low tone.

"I can't help seeing things," Max returned. "I suppose it's my
speciality. I knew you were in love with her from the first moment I saw
you."

Bertrand made a slight movement, as if the crude statement hurt him; but
he answered quite quietly, "You have divined a secret which is known to
none other. I confide it to your honourable keeping."

The corners of Max's mouth went down. He looked as if he were on the
verge of making some ironical rejoinder, but he restrained it, merely
asking, "Are you sure that no one else knows it?"

"You mean--?" The words came sharply this time; Bertrand's eyes searched
his face with keen anxiety.

"Chris herself," Max said.

"_La petite Christine! Ma foi, no_! She has never known!" Bertrand's
reply was instant and held unshaken conviction.

"You seem very sure of that," Max observed.

"I am sure. Also"--a queer little smile of tender