He had not allowed himself to be biased by
subsequent events.
"And that is strange--that!" the Frenchman murmured, with his eyes
upon the article. "Perhaps _la petite Christine_ has convinced him.
But no--that is not probable."
He broke off as the door opened, and a quick smile of welcome flashed
across his face. He stretched out both hands to the new-comer.
"All right. Sit still," said Max.
He sauntered across the room, his coat hanging open and displaying
evening dress, and gave his hand into Bertrand's eager clasp. It was a
very cool hand, and strong with a vitality that seemed capable of
imparting itself.
He looked down at Bertrand with a queer glint of tenderness in his eyes.
"I shouldn't have come up at this hour," he said, "but I guessed you
would be awake. How goes it, old chap? Pretty bad, eh?"
"No, I am better," Bertrand said. "I am glad that you came up."
Max drew up a chair, and sat down beside his _protege_. For nearly three
weeks now Bertrand had been with him. A post-card written from a squalid
back-street lodging had been his first intimation that the Frenchman was
in London, and within two hours of receiving it Max had removed him to
the private nursing-home in which he himself was at that time domiciled.
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