The corners of Max's mouth went down. He looked as if he were on the verge of making some ironical rejoinder, but he restrained it, merely asking, "Are you sure that no one else knows it?"
"You mean—?" The words came sharply this time; Bertrand's eyes searched his face with keen anxiety.
"Chris herself," Max said.
"La petite Christine! Ma foi, no! She has never known!" Bertrand's reply was instant and held unshaken conviction.
"You seem very sure of that," Max observed.
"I am sure. Also"—a queer little smile of tenderness touched Bertrand's drawn face—"she never will know now."
"Meaning you will never tell her?" Max said.
"Me, I will die first!" Bertrand answered simply.
Max grunted. "Women have an awkward knack of finding things out without being told," he observed.
"She will never discover this while I live," Bertrand answered. "I am her friend—the friend of her childhood—nothing more than that."