Mordaunt bent over him at last, all his hardness merged into pity. "My dear fellow, don't!" he said. "Give yourself time. Haven't you anything with you that will relieve this pain?"
Bertrand could not answer him. He made a feeble gesture with his right hand; his left was clenched and rigid.
Mordaunt began to feel in his pockets; his touch was as gentle as a woman's. But his search was unavailing. He only found an empty bottle. Bertrand had evidently taken the remedy it had contained earlier in the evening.
He turned to get some brandy, but Bertrand clutched at his sleeve and detained him. "Max is here," he gasped. "Find Max! He—knows!"
His hand fell away, and Mordaunt went to the door. Holmes had returned to his post in the passage. He came forward as the door opened.
"Mr. Max Wyndham is somewhere here," Mordaunt said. "Go and find him, and bring him back with you—at once."
Holmes nodded comprehension and went.
Mordaunt turned back into the room. Bertrand had slipped to the floor again, and was lying face downwards. His breathing was anguished, but he made no other sound.
Mordaunt poured out some brandy and went to him. He knelt down by his side and tried to administer it. But Bertrand could not drink. He could only gasp. Yet after a moment his hand came out gropingly and touched the man beside him.
Mordaunt took it and held it.