"You will kill yourself?" I demanded.
He bowed his head, and sat down again. He had once more fallen to trembling. A curious man this, a mixture of strength and weakness. He was past redemption, wedded to the grave by his disease, and yet he shivered at the thought of death. And yet again, he could deliberately resolve to shorten his life.
I frowned down at him. "Cavanagh," said I, "I wish you to be good enough to repeat to me, word for word, the rule you dare to dream of breaking."
"Useless!" he retorted. "I have well considered it. For God's sake leave me, Dagmar, I am done and desperate. I believe you mean me well, but you are killing me."
I saw indeed that he was desperate, and straight away I changed my tactics.
"George," I murmured in a soft and winning voice, "I have come here to-night to save you if I can, not to break you. Listen to me—it has been well said that no rule or law was ever yet devised by human ingenuity which might not be evaded by a criminal with brains enough. You seek to be a criminal. Well, well!" I nodded my head mysteriously. "It is a pity—but I like you, boy—I don't want you to die just yet. There may be a way out, in spite of all. Now—trust me and obey me."
A curious pang altogether strange to my experience shot through my breast, as I watched the glow of hope that flashed into the poor fellow's eyes, and the colour flame into his ashen cheeks.
"Dagmar!" he gasped, "Dagmar!" and he stretched out his shaking hands as a child might do.
"Repeat it word for word!" I commanded. "Come, calm yourself—that is better; now!"
He could hardly articulate at first, but he grew calmer as he proceeded.