“Monsieur Arndt,” the physician said, in a low tone, as he straightened himself, “it is Monsieur Arndt that he wants.”
The other three turned towards Grey. Captain Lindenwald raised his hand with a beckoning gesture.
“He wants you,” he whispered; and as the American approached the bed they made way for him. It was a face very thin and drawn that met Grey’s view. Very sallow, too, and parchment-like; the nose long and peaked, and the under lip, where it showed above the snow-white beard, darkly purple. A great shock of hair vied with the pillows in whiteness. In the tired eyes was a look of recognition.
“Lean over,” said Dr. Zagaie; “he wishes to speak to you. His voice is very weak.”
A sensation of repulsion had swept over Grey at sight of the old man, and now, to bring his face close to that of the invalid upon whom death had already set its mark was sickeningly repugnant. But with an effort of will he bent his head. A withered, wrinkled hand gripped his wrist and for the hundredth part of a second he recoiled. The voice that breathed into his ear was little more than a sigh, and he strained to gather the words.
“Take it,” he heard; “it is yours. The key----”
And then the utterances sank so low as to be unintelligible. That the old man had spoken in English was a circumstance over which Grey marvelled quite as much as he did over the ambiguous command. He stood erect again and would have stepped back, but the grip of the sufferer was still upon his arm. Then, from the glazing eyes came an appeal that was unmistakable, and again Grey bent his ear.
“The throne,” breathed the voice feebly; “it is yours. Take it!” This much the listener heard quite clearly, mentally commenting that the speaker was delirious. But from the sentences that followed he could only glean a word here and there. “Key” was mentioned again, and “box,” and he thought he heard “proofs,” and something that sounded like “Gare du Nord.”
At length the fingers on his wrist relaxed and the eyes of Herr Schlippenbach closed. Instantly and with professional celerity Dr. Zagaie plunged the needle of a hypodermic syringe into the fainting man’s arm. Simultaneously there was a gentle tap on the door, and without waiting to be bidden a florid-faced priest entered, carrying a small black leather case.