"Hold your tongue. I hate to be thanked," snarled he, and plunged back
again into his books and papers.

Once more the studious silence in the room--once more the rustling leaf
and scratching pen, which only made the stillness seem more still,
within and without.

"I beg your pardons," murmured the voice of the little Chevalier.

I turned, and saw him peeping through the half-open door. He looked more
wistful than ever, and twisted the handle nervously between his fingers.

My father frowned, and muttered something between his teeth. I fear it
was not very complimentary to the Chevalier.

"One word, Monsieur," pleaded the little man, edging himself round the
door, "one small word!"

"Say it, sir, and have done with it," said my father, savagely.

The Chevalier hesitated.

"I--I--Monsieur le Docteur--that is, I wish...."

"Confound it, sir, what do you wish?"

The Chevalier brushed away a tear.

"_Dites-moi,"_ he said with suppressed agitation. "One word--yes or
no--is he dangerous?"