I could guess from that what he had undergone.
He was so long in this condition that I began to think he was seriously ill, and would collapse altogether.
“Shall I summon assistance for you, monsieur?” I asked.
“No,” he murmured faintly, with a feeble wave of his white hand.
It was several minutes before he could rally sufficiently to resume.
Then he got up and changed to his own chair by the desk. He was like a man more than half dead, and when he tried to write, his hand shook so violently that he could not form the letters.
I waited in silence and watched him. Unscrupulous, treacherous, subtle, and vile as I believed him, he was so broken and beaten that I could almost have found it in me to pity him.
He succeeded after a strenuous effort in mastering his feebleness sufficiently to be able to write.
“I shall trust your honour, M. Denver. Here is an order to admit you to Mademoiselle Boreski, and to see her in private. Go to her at once. Bring me word that she abandons this wrongful charge against me, and you can both leave the country to-night. You can then surrender the documents. You will understand my wish for haste.”
“I must see M. Siegel also,” I said; “and have an order for his release.”