Noel departed, and with an effort Bertrand spoke.

“But that was not the truth.”

“Near enough,” responded the second Wyndham complacently.  “That is, if you don’t want everyone to know.”

Bertrand’s brows contracted.  “No—­no!  I would not that your sister should know, or Mr. Mordaunt.”

“They will have to sooner or later,” observed Max.

“Then—­let it be later,” murmured Bertrand.

Again there fell a silence, during which he seemed to be collecting his strength, for when he spoke again it was with more firmness.

“Mr. Wyndham!”

“All right, you can call me Max.  I’m listening,” said Max.

Bertrand faintly smiled.  That touch of good-fellowship pleased him.  Young as he was, this boy somehow made him feel that he understood many things.

“Then, Max,” he said, “I think that you know already that which I am going to say to you.  However, it is better to say it.  It is not possible that I shall live very long.”

He paused, but Max said nothing.  He sat, still holding Bertrand’s wrist, his gaze upon the opposite wall.

“You knew it, no?” Bertrand questioned.

“I suspected it,” Max said.  He turned slightly and looked at the man upon the bed.  “This isn’t your first attack,” he said.

Bertrand shuddered irrepressibly.  “Nor my second,” he said.

“I can give you something to ease the pain,” Max said.  “But if you’re wise you will consult a doctor.”

Again a faint smile flickered over Bertrand’s face.  “I am not enough wise,” he said, “to desire to prolong my life under these conditions.”

“I should say the same myself,” observed Max somewhat curtly.

He offered no further advice, but sat on, waiting apparently for further developments.

After a little Bertrand proceeded.  “I have known now for some time that this malady was incurable.  I think that I would not have it otherwise, 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.”