He signed another, and still another, his face deeply lined as he worked, wrinkles nesting in strained little puckers around the corners of his eyes--and suddenly, while there were yet two of the letters to be signed, he sat back in his chair, staring unseeingly before him. From the rear room came that footstep, slow, irregular, uncertain. It was Henri Mentone. Dupont's "flea" in the doctor's ear had had its effect. Henri Mentone was taking his exercise--from the bed to the window, from the window to the door, from the door to the bed, and over again. In the three days since the man had recovered consciousness, he had made rapid strides toward recovering his strength as well, though he still spent part of the day in bed--this afternoon, for instance, he was to be allowed out for a little while in the open air.
Raymond's eyes fixed on the open window where the morning sunlight streamed into the room. Yes, the man was getting on his feet rapidly enough to suit even Monsieur Dupont. The criminal assizes began at Tournayville the day after to-morrow. And the day after to-morrow Henri Mentone was to stand his trial for the murder of Théophile Blondin!
Raymond's fingers tightened upon the penholder until it cracked warningly, recalling him to himself. He had not gone that night. Gone! He laughed mockingly. The man had lost his memory! Who would have thought of that--and what it meant? If the man had died, or even if the man had talked and so _forced_ him to accept pursuit as his one and only chance, the issue would have been clear cut. But the man, curse him, had not died; nor had he told his story--and to all appearances at least, except for still being naturally a little weak, was as well as any one. Gone! Gone--that night! Great God, they would _hang_ the fool for this!
The sweat beads crept out on Raymond's forehead. No, no--not that! They thought the man was shamming now, but they would surely realise before it was too late that he was not. They would convict him of course, the evidence was damning, overwhelming, final--but they would not hang a man who could not remember. No, they wouldn't hang him. But what they would do was horrible enough--they would sentence the man for life, and keep him in the infirmary perhaps of some penitentiary. For life--that was all.