The light was failing, and a lamp had been brought into the room.

M.de Rosny pointed abruptly to a small piece of paper which lay on the table beside it, and, obeying his gesture, I took this up and read its contents, which consisted of less than a score of words.
'He is ill and like to die,' the message ran, 'twenty leagues south of La Ganache.

Come at all costs.

P.M.
'Who ?' I said stupidly--stupidly, for already I began to understand.

Who is ill and like to die ?' M.de Rosny turned to me, and I saw that the tears were trickling unbidden down his cheeks.