He stood a moment, then turned to the doctor's writing-table and sat down. "It's no good talking round and round," he said. "You'll have to tell Nick or your father. I can't do anything further. It's not in my power."
He opened a blotter with an air of finality, found a sheet of paper, and began to write.
Olga turned at the sound of his pen, and watched him dumbly. He had apparently dismissed her and her small affairs from his mind. His hand travelled with swift decision over the paper. He was evidently immersed in his own private concerns. He wrote rapidly and without a pause.
Very suddenly, without turning, he spoke again. "How did you like
Kersley?"
The question astonished her. She had almost forgotten their visitor of a few hours before. But she managed to answer with enthusiasm.
"I liked him immensely."
"He is the greatest friend I possess," Max said, still writing. "He made me."
"I thought you seemed very intimate," observed Olga.
He laughed. "We are. I pulled him through a pretty stiff illness once. The mischief was that he wanted to die. I made him live." A note of grim triumph sounded in his voice, but he still continued to write.
"Was he grateful?" Olga asked.