Nature’s long silences breed silence in man.  Dom Francisco ceased to question even with his eyes.  He made all ready, delivered them into the hands of trusted henchmen, and bade them God’s speed.  They struck out for the sea, but not by the long road that Lewis and the stranger had followed.  There was a nearer Northern port.  Toward it they set their faces, Consolation Cottage their goal.

CHAPTER XXI

Three weeks to a day from the time he had left Lewis in Paris, as Nelton was serving him with breakfast, Leighton received a telegram that gave him no inconsiderable shock.  The telegram was from Le Brux.

“Come at once,” it said; “your son has killed me.”

Leighton steadied himself with the thought that Le Brux was still alive enough to wire before he said: 

“Nelton, I’m off for Paris at once.  You have half an hour to pack and get me to Charing Cross.”

Nine hours later he was taking the stairs at Le Brux’s two steps at a time.  As he approached the atelier, he heard sighing groans.  He threw open the door without knocking.  Stretched on the couch was the giant frame, wallowing feebly like a harpooned whale at the last gasp.

“Matre!” cried Leighton.

The sculptor half raised himself, turned a worn face on Leighton, and then burst into a tremendous laugh—­one of those laughs that is so violent as to be painful.

“Ha! ha! ha!  Ho! ho! ho!” he roared, and fell back upon his side.

Leighton felt somebody pecking at his arm.  He turned, to find the old concierge beside him.

“Oh, sir,” she almost wept, “can’t you do something?  He has been like that all day.”

“Go,” he said, “bring me a pail of water.”  He stood watching Le Brux until she returned.  “Now,” he said, “go out and close the door after you.”

“Don’t be rough with him,” sighed the fat concierge as she waddled toward the door, drying her hands on her apron.

“Le Brux,” said Leighton, “Le Brux!”

“Yes, I hear,” gasped the sculptor, his eyes tight shut.

“Le Brux, where is your wound?”

“My wound?  Ha! my wound!  He would know where is my wound!  Here, here, my old one, here!” He passed his two hands over his shaking ribs.

“Well, then,” said Leighton, “take that!” and he dashed the pail of water over the prostrate giant.

Le Brux gasped, gulped, and then sat up on the couch.  He suddenly became very grave.  Water trickled off his chin upon his hairy chest.  The soaked smock clung to his arms and legs, accentuating the tremendous muscles.  “M’sieu’ Letonne,” he said, with alarming calm, “you have committed an unpardonable impertinence.  At the same time you have unwittingly saved my life.  You have heard of men, strong men, laughing themselves to death?”

Leighton, who had seated himself, bowed.

“Well,” continued Le Brux, “I can assure you that you and your pail of slops arrived only in time to avert a tragedy.  That fact entitles itself to recognition, and I am consequently going to tell you all that has happened before we part—­definitely.”