“You have returned—and failed?”
“The American, I think, is dead, Herr Doktor,” said the man in his staccato tone. “The so excellent Pfeiffer is also—dead!”
The doctor blinked twice.
“Dead?” he said gratingly. “Who told you this?”
“I saw him. Something happened . . . to the snake. Pfeiffer was bitten.”
The old man’s hard eyes fixed him.
“So!” he said softly.
“He died very quickly—in the usual manner,” jerked Gurther, still with that stupid smile.
“So!” said the doctor again. “All then was failure, and out of it comes an American, who is nothing, and Pfeiffer, who is much—dead!”
“God have him in his keeping!” said Gurther, not lowering or raising his eyes. “And all the way back I thought this, Herr Doktor—how much better that it should be Pfeiffer and not me. Though my nerves are so bad.”