The sound of the opening door recalled him at last, and he started upright.  It was Holmes with the evening paper.

The man spied the pen upon the floor and stooped for it.  Bertrand stretched out a quivering hand, took it from him, and made as if he would resume his writing.  But the pen only wandered aimlessly over the paper, and in a moment fell again from his nerveless fingers.

Holmes paused.  Bertrand sat with his head on his hand as if unaware of him.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” he ventured.

Bertrand made a slight movement.  “If I might have—­a little brandy,” he said, speaking with obvious effort.

“Brandy?  I’ll get it at once, sir,” said Holmes, and was gone with the words.

Returning, he found Bertrand so far master of himself as to force a smile, but his face was ghastly.  There was a blue, pinched look about his mouth that Holmes, reminiscent of his hospital days, did not like.  He had seen that look before.

But the first taste of spirit dispelled it.  Very courteously Bertrand thanked him.

“You are a good man, Holmes.  And I think that you are my friend, yes?”

“Very pleased to do anything I can for you, sir,” said Holmes.

“Ah!  Then I will ask of you one little thing.  It is that you remember that this weakness—­this malady of a moment—­remain a secret between us two—­between—­us—­two. Vous comprenez; non?”

His eyes, very bright and searching, looked with a certain peremptoriness into the man’s face, and Holmes, accustomed to obey, made instinctive response.

“You mean as I am not to mention it to Mr. Mordaunt, sir?”

“That is what I mean, Holmes.”

“Very good, sir,” said Holmes.  “You’re feeling better, I hope, sir?”

Very slowly de Montville rose to his feet, and stood, holding to the back of his chair.

“I am—­quite well,” he said impressively.

“Very good, sir,” said Holmes again, and withdrew, shaking his head dubiously as soon as he was out of the Frenchman’s sight.

As for de Montville, he went slowly across to the window and, leaning against the sash, gazed down upon the empty street.

Not until he heard Mordaunt’s step outside more than half an hour later did he move, and then very abruptly he returned to the writing-table and seized the pen anew.  He was writing with feverish rapidity when Mordaunt entered.

Very quietly Mordaunt came up and looked over his shoulder.  “My boy,” he said, “I am very sorry, but that is not legible.”

His tone was unreservedly kind, and Bertrand jerked up his head as if surprised.

He surveyed the page before him with pursed lips, then flashed a quick look into Mordaunt’s face.

“It is true,” he admitted, with a rueful smile.  “I also am sorry.”

“Leave it,” Mordaunt said.  “You are looking fagged, Yes, I mean it.  It will keep.”