He found Bertrand seated huddled on the edge of his bed, gasping horribly for breath.  He did not apparently hear Max enter.  His close-cropped head was bowed upon his arms.  His hands were opening and closing convulsively.  He rocked to and fro almost with violence, but no sound beyond his spasmodic breathing escaped him.

Max set down the brandy and took him by the shoulders.  “Look here,” he said, “lie down.  I’ll help you.”

Bertrand started a little at his touch, and Max had a glimpse of his tortured face as he glanced up. “Fermez la porte!” he said, in a choked whisper.

The door was already shut.  Max wheeled and turned the key.  “Now!” he said.

He stooped over the Frenchman, and with the utmost care lifted him back on to the pillows, unfastened his collar, then turned to fling the windows as wide as they would go.  The night air, fragrant with rain, blew in, rustling the curtains.  Bertrand turned his face towards it instinctively.  His lips were blue; they worked painfully, as if, between his gasping, he were still trying to speak.

“Keep still!” Max said.

He mixed some brandy and water, and returning, slipped his arm under the pillow.  “Don’t exert yourself,” he said.  “I’ll do it all.”

Very steadily he held the glass for Bertrand to drink.  He could take but very little at a time, so agonized was his struggle for breath.  Max waited through each pause, closely watching the drawn face, never missing his opportunity.  And gradually that little took effect.  The anguish died out of Bertrand’s eyes, and he lay still.

Max slipped his arm from beneath the pillow and stood up.  “Don’t move,” he said.  “You’re getting better.”

“You—­will stay—­with me?” whispered Bertrand.

“Yes.”

He drew up a chair, and sat down, took the Frenchman’s wrist between his fingers, and so remained for a long time.

Bertrand lay with closed eyes, his breathing still short and occasionally difficult, but no longer agonized.

There came the sound of flying feet along the corridor, and an impatient hand hammered on the door.

“Hullo, Bertrand!  Are you all right?  Chris wants to know,” shouted a boyish voice.

Bertrand started violently, and a quiver of pain went through him.  He fixed his eyes imploringly on Max, who instantly rose to the occasion.

“Of course he’s all right.  You clear out!  We’re busy.”

“What are you doing?” Keen curiosity sounded in Noel’s voice.

“Never mind!  We don’t want you,” came the brotherly rejoinder.

“But I say—­”

“Clear out!” ordered Max.  “Go and tell Chris that Bertrand is writing a letter to catch the post; which reminds me,” he added grimly, “you can also tell Holmes to come and fetch it in a quarter of an hour.  Don’t forget now.  It’s important.”

He pulled the letter entrusted to his keeping from his pocket and tossed it on to the table.