"Yes," Max acknowledged grimly. "It was a pity. But his reason for coming was urgent. And, after all, it made little difference. It has only hastened by a few weeks the end that was bound to come."
"You think that he will die?"
"Yes." Max spoke briefly. His tone was one of indifference.
The Frenchman looked at him curiously. "And what was his reason for coming?"
"It was a strictly private one," Max said. "This trial had nothing to do with it. It will certainly never be made public, so I am not at liberty to speak of it."
"And has he done—that which he left England to do?"
"Not yet, sir, but he may do it—if he lives long enough." Again Max's tone was devoid of all feeling. He still stood planted squarely against the closed door.
"And you think he will not do that?"
"On the contrary," said Max, "I think he will—if I am with him to keep him going."
He spoke with true British doggedness, and a gleam of humour crossed the
Frenchman's face. He made a brief bow.