Again for an instant he paused, seeming to strive after self-control.  Then suddenly he relinquished the attempt.  He flung his dignity from him; he threw himself on his knees at the impassive Englishman’s feet.  “Mr. Mordaunt,” he cried out brokenly, “I have told you the truth.  As a dying man, I swear to you—­by God—­that I have hidden nothing.  Monsieur—­monsieur—­go back to her—­make her happy—­before I die!”

His voice dropped.  He sank forward, murmuring incoherently.

Mordaunt stooped sharply over him.  “Bertrand, for Heaven’s sake—­” he began, and broke off short; for the face that still tried to look into his was so convulsed with agony that he knew him to be for the moment beyond the reach of words.

He lifted the huddled Frenchman to a chair with great gentleness; but the paroxysm did not pass.  It was terrible to witness.  It seemed to rack him from head to foot, and through it he still strove to plead, though his speech was no more than broken sound, inexpressibly painful to hear, impossible to understand.

Mordaunt bent over him at last, all his hardness merged into pity.  “My dear fellow, don’t!” he said.  “Give yourself time.  Haven’t you anything with you that will relieve this pain?”

Bertrand could not answer him.  He made a feeble gesture with his right hand; his left was clenched and rigid.

Mordaunt began to feel in his pockets; his touch was as gentle as a woman’s.  But his search was unavailing.  He only found an empty bottle.  Bertrand had evidently taken the remedy it had contained earlier in the evening.

He turned to get some brandy, but Bertrand clutched at his sleeve and detained him.  “Max is here,” he gasped.  “Find Max!  He—­knows!”

His hand fell away, and Mordaunt went to the door.  Holmes had returned to his post in the passage.  He came forward as the door opened.

“Mr. Max Wyndham is somewhere here,” Mordaunt said.  “Go and find him, and bring him back with you—­at once.”

Holmes nodded comprehension and went.

Mordaunt turned back into the room.  Bertrand had slipped to the floor again, and was lying face downwards.  His breathing was anguished, but he made no other sound.

Mordaunt poured out some brandy and went to him.  He knelt down by his side and tried to administer it.  But Bertrand could not drink.  He could only gasp.  Yet after a moment his hand came out gropingly and touched the man beside him.

Mordaunt took it and held it.

“You—­believe me?” Bertrand jerked out.

“I believe you,” Mordaunt answered very gravely.

“You—­you forgive?”

Painfully the question came.  It went into silence.  But the hand that had taken Bertrand’s closed slowly and very firmly.

“Et la petite—­la petite—­” faltered Bertrand.

The silence endured for seconds.  It seemed as if no answer would come.  And through it the man’s anguished breathing came and went with a dreadful pumping sound as of some broken machinery.