Leighton steadied himself with the thought that Le Brux was still alive
enough to wire before he said:

"Nelton, I'm off for Paris at once. You have half an hour to pack and
get me to Charing Cross."

Nine hours later he was taking the stairs at Le Brux's two steps at a
time. As he approached the atelier, he heard sighing groans. He threw
open the door without knocking. Stretched on the couch was the giant
frame, wallowing feebly like a harpooned whale at the last gasp.

"_Matre!_" cried Leighton.

The sculptor half raised himself, turned a worn face on Leighton, and
then burst into a tremendous laugh--one of those laughs that is so
violent as to be painful.

"Ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho!" he roared, and fell back upon his side.

Leighton felt somebody pecking at his arm. He turned, to find the old
concierge beside him.

"Oh, sir," she almost wept, "can't you do something? He has been like
that all day."

"Go," he said, "bring me a pail of water." He stood watching Le Brux
until she returned. "Now," he said, "go out and close the door after
you."

"Don't be rough with him," sighed the fat concierge as she waddled