Half an hour or more had passed, when some papers arrived from the bank, which required the signature of the firm. Mr. Engelman being still absent, the head-clerk, at my suggestion, proceeded to the dining-room with the papers in his charge.
He came back again immediately, looking very much alarmed.
"Pray go into the dining-room!" he said to me. "I am afraid something is seriously wrong with Mr. Engelman.
"Do you mean that he is ill?" I asked.
"I can hardly say. His arms are stretched out on the table, and his face is hidden on them. He paid no attention to me. I am almost afraid he was crying."
Crying? I had left him in excellent spirits, casting glances of the tenderest admiration at Madame Fontaine. Without waiting to hear more, I ran to the dining-room.
He was alone—in the position described by the clerk—and, poor old man, he was indeed weeping bitterly! I put my hand with all possible gentleness on his shoulder, and said, with the tenderness that I really felt for him: "Dear Mr. Engelman, what has happened to distress you?"
At the sound of my voice he looked up, and caught me fervently by the hand.
"Stay here with me a little while, David," he said. "I have got my death-blow."
I sat down by him directly. "Try and tell me what has happened," I went on. "I left you here with Madame Fontaine——"