"Il est dix heures, savez‑vous?" said little Frau outside—"voulez‑vous votre café dans votre chambre?"
"O Christ!" said Barty—and jumped out of bed. "It's all got to be done now!"
But something very strange had happened.
The tumbler was still there, but the cyanide had disappeared; so had the four letters he had written. His pen and ink were on the table, and on his open writing‑case lay a letter in Blaze—in his own handwriting. The north was strong in him. He called out to Finche Torfs to leave his coffee in the drawing‑room, and read his blaze letter—and this is what he read:
"My dear Barty,—Don't be in the least alarmed on reading this hasty scrawl, after waking from the sleep you meant to sleep forever. There is no sleep without a live body to sleep in—no such thing as everlasting sleep. Self‑destruction seems a very simple thing—more often a duty than not; but it's not to be done! It is quite impossible not to be, when once you have been.
"If I were to let you destroy your body, as you were so bent on doing, the strongest interest I have on earth would cease to exist.
"I love you, Barty, with a love passing the love of woman; and have done so from the day you were born. I loved your father and mother before you—and theirs; ça date de loin, mon pauvre ami! and especially I love your splendid body and all that belongs to it—brain, stomach, heart, and the rest; even your poor remaining eye, which is worth all the eyes of Argus!
"So I have used your own pen and ink and paper, your own right hand and brain, your own cipher, and the words that are yours, to write you this—in English. I like English better than French.
"Listen. Monsieur Noiret is a fool; and you are a poor self‑deluded hypochondriac.
"I am convinced your right eye is safe for many years to come—probably for the rest of your life.