Nicholson drew back stiffly.
"You are talking nonsense," he said, in a colder tone. "No one wants you to die—and in any case, you know very well we have no chance of getting through this alive."
Travers seized his arm. His eyes shone with a painful excitement.
"Yes—yes!" he stammered. "You have a chance—a sure hope. I can save you; I can—atone. That's what I want. Only you must help me. I am a dying man. I want you to bring me to the Rajah—at once. Only five minutes with him—that will be enough. Then he will let you go—he must!"
Nicholson freed himself resolutely from the clinging hands.
"You exaggerate your power," he said, "and, besides, what you ask is an impossibility."
He turned away, but Travers caught his arm and held him with a frantic, desperate strength.
"Then if you will not help me—send Miss Cary to me," he pleaded. "I must speak to her."
Nicholson looked down into the dying face with a new interest. He had no suspicion of the burden with which Travers' soul was laden, and yet he was conscious now that the matter was urgent and of an importance which he could not estimate.
"I will tell her," he said. "Stay quiet a minute. We have no time to lose."