"All right, I will come in a minute," was now his answer; to which he added the question—"Is that you, Count? Do you know it's only just six o'clock?"
He opened the door and found himself face to face with the hotel valet, an amiable young Frenchman by the name of Malette.
"Monsieur," said the man, "will you please come at once? There has been an accident—his excellency is very ill."
"An accident to the Count? Is it serious, Malette?"
"It is very serious, monsieur. They say that he will not live. The doctors are with him—I thought that you would wish to know immediately."
Alban turned without a word and began to put on his clothes. His hands were quite cold and he trembled as though stricken by an ague. When he had found a dressing-gown, he huddled it on anyhow and followed Malette down the corridor.
"When did this happen, Malette?"
"I do not know, monsieur. One of the servants chanced to pass his excellency's door and saw something which frightened him. He called the concierge and they waked the Herr Director. Afterwards they sent for the police."
"Do they think that the Count was assassinated, then?"