"Then he couldn't have heard you," said Max. "The post goes out at nine-thirty."
"Ah! Then perhaps you would wait a moment while I direct this envelope, and you can then give it to a servant with orders to take it to the post-office at once."
Max drew his red brows together and waited.
The scratching of Aunt Philippa's pen filled in the pause. She directed her envelope, blotted it with care, stamped it with precision, finally handed it to her nephew with the request, "Please remember that it is important."
Max received it with reverence. "I shall treat it with the utmost veneration," he said. He knew that his aunt had a strong dislike for him, and he fostered it with much enjoyment upon every possible occasion.
He slipped the letter into his pocket as he left the room and promptly dismissed it from his mind.
He turned aside into the dining-room, rummaged for brandy and found it, and went with noiseless speed upstairs.
The door of Bertrand's room was unlatched, and he pushed it open without ceremony. Blank darkness met him on the threshold, but a sound within told him the room was tenanted. He switched on the light without delay, entered, and shut the door.
He found Bertrand seated huddled on the edge of his bed, gasping horribly for breath. He did not apparently hear Max enter. His close-cropped head was bowed upon his arms. His hands were opening and closing convulsively. He rocked to and fro almost with violence, but no sound beyond his spasmodic breathing escaped him.
Max set down the brandy and took him by the shoulders. "Look here," he said, "lie down. I'll help you."