Five seconds later Max had returned to his self-appointed task of helping a dying man to live through the night.

CHAPTER IX

VALPRE AGAIN

“How dark it is!” said Chris.  “And how we are crawling!”

She turned her white face from the carriage-window with the words.  They were the first she had uttered since leaving Paris.

Neither of her two companions responded at once.  Noel was curled up in the farther corner asleep, and her husband sitting opposite was writing rapidly in a notebook.  He stopped to finish his sentence before he looked up.  She was conscious of a little sense of chill because he did so.

“Why don’t you try to get a sleep?” he said then.  “We shall not reach Valpre for another two hours.”

“I can’t sleep,” she said.

Her eyes avoided his instinctively.  They were more nearly alone together at this moment than they had been since their brief interview that morning at the Davenants’ flat.  It seemed weeks ago to Chris already.

“Have you tried?” he asked.

“No.”

He did not make the obvious rejoinder, but glanced again at his writing, added something, and put it away.  Then, with his usual deliberation of movement, he left his seat and came over to her side.

She had a moment of desperate shyness as he sat down.  “Don’t let me interrupt you,” she said nervously.

He ignored the words, as if he considered them foolish “I should like you to get a little sleep,” he said.  “You have had a long day.  Look at that fellow over there, setting the good example.”

“He hasn’t so much to think about,” said Chris, with a smile that quivered in spite of her.

“Are you thinking very hard?” he asked.

“Yes.”  She brought out the word with an effort, for suddenly she wanted to cry again, and she was determined to keep back her tears this time.

He made no comment, but sat and looked at the blank darkness of the window.

After a time she mastered herself, and stole a glance at his grave face.

“You—­I suppose you will be busy at the court again to-morrow?” she said.

“Yes.”  He turned to her in his quiet way.  “It will be the last day in all probability.”

“You think the verdict will be made known?”

“Yes.”

She shivered a little.  “And the sentence?”

“The sentence will probably not be disclosed till later.”

She shivered again, and he reached forward and drew the window a little higher.

“I’m not cold,” she said quickly.  “Trevor, aren’t you—­just a little—­sorry for him?”

“For whom?”

“For the prisoner—­for—­for Captain Rodolphe.”  She stammered the name with downcast eyes.

“No.”  Very calmly and very decidedly came his answer.  “I have no pity for a man of that sort.  I think he should be shot.”