man was—of all the indeterminate men in the world—Paul Minas!
Mais si tu dois mourir—why should that phrase come back again and again, with its accompaniment of solemn, muffled chords!
He thrust it from him and snuggled his head on the pillow. After all, everything was on the cards. Let them reveal what they might. If one was doomed, one was doomed.
It took Paul three months to break down the Markwick defences. The period was a nerve-racking one, for apart from the delicacy of the negotiations he had to breast the undercurrent of Mademoiselle's enmity and keep reassuring Pat that the time he spent out of the office was not being dissipated. To catch glimpses of his salesman, elegantly garbed, setting out for gymkhanas, or to hear from his lips chit-chat brought back from clubs and drawing-rooms, was a drastic test of Pat's faith. A tension marked their relationship until the letter arrived containing a big order from the refractory merchant. Paul stood with his hands on Patrick's shoulders while they read it through to the paragraph which ran: "If you can deliver the above in satisfactory condition by May fifteenth, at the latest, we shall be pleased to confer with your representative regarding orders for autumn and winter stock."
"Well?" inquired Paul, with suppressed triumph.
Pat rose with a smile of relief. "Congratulations!" he said. "You put it over great. How you done it I don't know."
"But I did," said Paul, like a child claiming full credit for having been good.
"What's the next move?"
"Alexandria," Paul unexpectedly announced.
