“I beg your Excellency’s pardon,” said Paschics, much perturbed by the effect of his prudence; “but I thought you might be resting, and I ventured to come in before announcing his Excellency the British Minister.”
“Ask Sir Egerton to come in,” said Cyril, passing a hand over his brow, “and remain outside, Paschics. I shall want your signature to a paper in a minute or two. Come in, Stratford, and don’t mind my being a little shaky. My nerves are a bit upset, I fear.”
“You have no business to be sitting up writing,” said Sir Egerton bluntly. “Why are you not in bed?”
“Because I could not rest until I had got through some business. I want your help in connection with a legal document.”
“Nonsense! you want a doctor, not a lawyer. What is Danilovics thinking of to let you go on like this? You are almost in a fever already.”
“That is all the more reason for settling my affairs while my mind is clear. I want you to witness my will.”
Sir Egerton jumped. “Your will? My dear Mortimer, pull yourself together. You don’t think you are going to die of a cut in the wrist?”
“Next time the aim may be truer,” was the gloomy reply.
“Next time? Who wants to attack you again, now that the fellow who stabbed you is dead? You mustn’t let yourself get nervous.”
“My dear Stratford, if you felt persuaded that you were not intended to leave this house again alive, perhaps you would be slightly nervous.”