"My dear Doctor, you must at any cost—"
The usher was standing near, waiting.
"What is it?—Oh! yes, this card. Show him into the gallery, I will be there in a moment."
The Duc de Mora's gallery, which was open to visitors twice a week, was to him a sort of neutral territory, a public place where he could see anybody on earth without binding himself to anything or compromising himself. Then, when the usher had left the room:
"Jenkins, my good friend, you have already performed miracles for me. I ask you to perform another. Double my dose of the pearls, think up something, whatever you choose. But I must be in condition Sunday. You understand, in perfect condition."
And his hot, feverish fingers closed upon the little note he held with a shudder of longing.
"Beware, Monsieur le Duc," said Jenkins, very pale, his lips pressed tightly together, "I have no desire to alarm you beyond measure concerning your weak state, but it is my duty—"
Mora smiled, a charming, mischievous smile.
"Your duty and my pleasure are two, my good fellow. Let me burn my life at both ends if it amuses me. I have never had such a fine opportunity as I have now."
He started.