"Nelton, I'm off for Paris at once. You have half an hour to pack and get me to Charing Cross."
Nine hours later he was taking the stairs at Le Brux's two steps at a time. As he approached the atelier, he heard sighing groans. He threw open the door without knocking. Stretched on the couch was the giant frame, wallowing feebly like a harpooned whale at the last gasp.
"Matre!" cried Leighton.
The sculptor half raised himself, turned a worn face on Leighton, and then burst into a tremendous laugh—one of those laughs that is so violent as to be painful.
"Ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho!" he roared, and fell back upon his side.
Leighton felt somebody pecking at his arm. He turned, to find the old concierge beside him.
"Oh, sir," she almost wept, "can't you do something? He has been like that all day."
"Go," he said, "bring me a pail of water." He stood watching Le Brux until she returned. "Now," he said, "go out and close the door after you."
"Don't be rough with him," sighed the fat concierge as she waddled toward the door, drying her hands on her apron.
"Le Brux," said Leighton, "Le Brux!"