He went to the chair on which he had set his overcoat and his hat, and picked them up. Guerchard sprang in front of him, barring his way, and cried in a shaky voice: "No; don't go! You mustn't go!"
"What do you mean?" said the Duke, and paused. "What do you mean?"
Guerchard stepped back, and ran his hand over his forehead. He was very pale, and his forehead was clammy to his touch:
"No . . . I beg your pardon . . . I beg your pardon, your Grace . . . I must be going mad," he stammered.
"It looks very like it," said the Duke coldly.
"What I mean to say is," said Guerchard in a halting, uncertain voice, "what I mean to say is: help me . . . I want you to stay here, to help me against Lupin, you understand. Will you, your Grace?"
"Yes, certainly; of course I will, if you want me to," said the Duke, in a more gentle voice. "But you seem awfully upset, and you're upsetting me too. We shan't have a nerve between us soon, if you don't pull yourself together."
"Yes, yes, please excuse me," muttered Guerchard.
"Very good," said the Duke. "But what is it we're going to do?"
