"Let me!" whispered Chris.
She bent over him, and slipped her own trembling hand inside his coat.
Her fingers touched something hard, and she drew out a small bottle.
"Is it this?" she said.
His lips moved in the affirmative. She removed the stopper and shook out some capsules.
"Deux!" whispered Bertrand.
She put them into his mouth and waited. Great drops had started on his forehead, and now began to roll slowly down his drawn face. She took his handkerchief after a little to wipe them away, but almost immediately he reached up with a quivering smile and took it from her.
"I am better," he said, and though his voice was husky he had it under control. "You will pardon me for giving you this trouble. It was only—a passing weakness."
He mopped his forehead, and leaned slowly forward, moving with caution.
"But you are ill! You are in pain!" Chris exclaimed.
"No," he said. "No, I have no pain. I am better. I am quite well."