And then, suddenly, he stopped. Stopped coldly and completely, as if he had been turned to stone. Deep within him an idea was growing. An idea so stupendous that it made his brain reel within his skull.
He whirled on the drunk.
"What did you say your name was?"
"'M Gustav Jerbette. 'M pain'er. Bes' dam' pain'er—"
The next instant the tipsy one was reeling backward into his room under the impetus of a powerful shove.
"Hey! Wha's idea?" he burbled. "Qui' pushin'—"
"Shut up, you stew-bum! I'm going to sober you up if I have to kill you! You've got a job to do!"
The doctor was a grave, bearded man. At last he rose from beside Elaine's straw bed in the fire-gutted chateau.
"How is she, doctor? Is there any hope?" Mark's voice was choked with emotion, his face drawn and haggard with strain.