Li Wen came silently in. He spoke to his master for a few minutes in Chinese. A faint smile parted the latter's lips.
"You can tell the person at the telephone that I will call within the next few minutes," he directed. "You will not object," he added, turning courteously to Nigel, "if I stop for a moment, on the way to Downing Street, at a small private hospital? An acquaintance of mine lies sick there and desires urgently to see me."
"I am entirely at your service," Nigel assured him.
Prince Shan, with many apologies, left Nigel alone in the car outside a tall, grey house in John Street, and, preceded by the white-capped nurse who had opened the door, climbed the stairs to the first floor of the celebrated nursing home, where, after a moment's delay, he was shown into a large and airy apartment. Immelan was in bed, looking very ill indeed. He was pale, and his china-blue eyes, curiously protruding, were filled with an expression of haunting fear. A puzzled doctor was standing by the bedside. A nurse, who was smoothing the bedclothes, glanced around at Prince Shan's entrance. The invalid started convulsively, and, clutching the pillows with his right hand, turned towards his visitor.
"So you've come!" he exclaimed. "Stay where yon are! Don't go! Doctor—nurse—leave us alone for a moment."
The nurse went at once. The doctor hesitated.
"My patient is a good deal exhausted," he said. "There are no dangerous symptoms at present, but—"
"I will promise not to distress him," Prince Shan interrupted. "I am myself somewhat pressed for time, and it is probable that your patient will insist upon speaking to me in private."
The doctor followed the nurse from the room. Prince Shan stood looking down upon the figure of quondam associate. There was a leaven of mild wonder in his clear eyes, a faintly contemptuous smile about the corners of his lips.
"So you are afraid of death, my friend," he observed, "afraid of the death you planned so skilfully for me."