“I said three o’clock, monsieur.”
“You are not looking well.”
In truth, he was looking very ill. His face was drawn and careworn and absolutely colourless, his eyes tired, and his whole expression suggestive of a strained effort to rally an already overtaxed strength. The events of the previous day had shaken him severely; and I remembered his illness.
“I am an old man, monsieur, and not well. My heart is treacherous,” he said as he sank into a chair.
It was not exactly a happy phrase, and I caught Helga’s fleeting glance of surprise.
“A treacherous heart is an ugly life companion,” I answered gravely. “May I suggest a glass of cognac? You have been overtaxing your strength, Prince,” I said as I handed it to him.
It seemed to give him some energy, and as he put down the glass, he said in a less weary tone—
“You are packing?”
“There is a lot to do, of course. You have brought the papers and so on for our journey?”
“No.”