THE COMPACT

Wearily Bertrand de Montville turned his head upon the sofa-cushion, and opened his heavy eyes.  He seemed to be listening for something, but evidently he considered that he had listened in vain, for his eyelids began to droop again almost immediately.  He seemed to drift into a state of semi-consciousness.

The evening sunlight was screened from his face by blinds, but even so its deep shadows were painfully distinct.  He looked unutterably tired.

There came a slight sound at the door, and again his eyes were open.  In a moment, with incredible briskness, he was off the couch and half-way across the room before, seized with sudden dizziness, he began to falter.

Trevor Mordaunt, entering, made a dive forward, and held him up.

“Now, my friend, lie down again,” he said, “and stay down till further orders.”

“Ah, pardon me!” the Frenchman murmured, clutching vaguely for support.  “I am strong, more strong than you think.  I—­I—­”

“Lie down,” Trevor reiterated.  “You don’t give yourself a chance, man.  You forget you have been a helpless invalid for the past ten days.  There!  How’s that?  Comfortable?”

“You are always so good—­so good!” panted de Montville very earnestly.  “I know not how to thank you—­how to repay.”

“Just obey orders, that’s all,” said the Englishman, faintly smiling.  “I want to get you well.  No, you are not well yet—­say what you like, you’re not.  I’ve let you get up for an experiment, but if you don’t behave yourself back you go.  Now lie still, quite still, while I open my letters.  When you have quite recovered your breath we will have a talk.”

He had assumed this tone of authority from the outset, and de Montville had submitted, in the first place because he was too ill to do otherwise, and later because, somewhat to his surprise, he found himself impelled thereto by his own inclination.  It did not in any fashion wound his pride, this kindly mastery.  He wondered at himself for tolerating it, and yet he offered no resistance.  It was too great a thing to resist.

So, still panting a little, he subsided obediently upon Mordaunt’s sofa while the latter busied himself with his correspondence.

There was a considerable pile of letters.  Mordaunt opened one after another with the deliberation that marked most of his actions, but the pile dwindled very quickly notwithstanding.  Some letters he dropped at once into a waste-paper basket, upon others he scribbled a few notes; two or three he laid aside for further consideration.

The last of all he held in his hand for several seconds unopened.  The envelope was a large one and stiff, as if it contained cardboard.  It was directed in an irregular, childish scrawl.  Mordaunt, sitting at his writing-table, with his back to his guest, studied it gravely, thoughtfully.  Finally very quietly he broke the seal.