"M. de Montville is fortunate to possess such a friend," he said.
The corner of Max's mouth went down. "As to that," he said dryly, "he might do a good deal better, and a very little worse. Now, sir, what are you going to do?"
The Frenchman looked quizzical. "It seems that I must take your advice, monsieur, or risk very serious consequences. I shall leave a guard here during the night, and I must ask you to give me the key of this door. Après cela"—he shrugged his shoulders—"nous verrons."
Max turned without protest, opened the door, and withdrew the key. He stood a moment listening before he turned back and laid it in the officer's hand. His face was grave.
"I think I must go to him," he said. "You will see to it that he is not disturbed?"
"No one will enter without your permission," the Frenchman answered. "And you, monsieur, will remain with him until I return."
"I see," said Max. Again, for an instant, the fighting gleam was in his eyes, then carelessly he laughed. "Well, I shan't try to run away. He and I are down in the same lot. You would find it harder to turn me out than to keep me here."
"I believe it, monsieur." There was no irony in the words or in the bow that accompanied them. "And I repeat, he is a happy man who possesses your friendship."
"Oh, rats!" said Max, and suddenly turned scarlet. "You are talking through your hat, sir. If you've quite done, I'll go."
It was the most boyish utterance he had permitted himself, and as he gave vent to it he was so obviously ill at ease that the Frenchman smiled.