"I will," said Captain Francis Newcombe.
The Frenchman's footsteps died away in an outer room.
Captain Francis Newcombe's fingers tightened around the letter he held in his hand, crushed it, and carefully smoothed it out again. He lay there motionless then, his face turned away from the door, his lips thinned, his under jaw outthrust a little.
"Three years in the planting!" he muttered to himself. "It has ripened well! Very well! Paul—bah! What does it matter, after all, that he read the letter? I am not sure but that he has already outlived his usefulness—and Runnells too!" He thrust the letter suddenly underneath his pillow. "Damn the infernal pain!" he gritted between his teeth. "If I could only sleep for a bit—sleep—sleep!"
And for a time he tossed restlessly from side to side, and then presently he slept.
Runnells, in response to a demand from the bedroom, brought in the luncheon tray.
"You've had a rare whack of sleep," he said, as he laid the tray down on the table beside the bed.
"What time is it?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe.
"Three o'clock," said Runnells. "Here, sit up a bit, and I'll bolster the pillows in behind you."
"Where's Paul?" asked the ex-captain of territorials.