Harding pondered this for a moment or two. He distrusted the man and believed he would feel no compunction about poisoning Blake, should he consider it safe to do so, but he thought he had convinced him of the contrary.
"I must leave you to decide, but if the result's unfortunate I'll hold you responsible," he said.
"If you doubt my professional skill or good faith why do you put your partner in my charge?"
"I've some confidence in your sense of self-interest," Harding rejoined. "You'll serve the latter best by curing Blake."
After giving him a curious glance Clarke got up. "I'll try the draught, and it had better be done now. There is no time to lose."
He moved towards Blake, who lay with half-closed eyes, breathing with apparent difficulty and making feeble restless movements. Stooping beside him, he took out a very small bottle, and after carefully letting a few drops fall into a spoon, with some trouble got the sick man to swallow them. Then he sat down and turned to Harding.
"I can't predict the result. We must wait an hour; then I may be able to form some opinion."
Harding lighted his pipe and though he found it strangely hard to sit still smoked steadily. His mouth grew dry with the strain he was bearing, but he refilled the pipe as it emptied and bit savagely on its stem, crushing the wood between his teeth. There was, so far as he could see, no change in Blake, and he was stirred by a deep pity and a daunting sense of loneliness. He knew now that he had grown to love the man; Blake's quick resourcefulness had overcome many of the obstacles they had met with, his whimsical humour had lightened the toilsome march, and often when they were wet and worn out he had banished their dejection by a jest. Now it looked as if they would hear his cheerful laugh no more, and Harding felt that if the worst came, he would, in a sense, be accountable for his partner's death. It was his sanguine expectations that had drawn Blake into the wilds.
Benson, who seemed to find the suspense equally trying, made no remark, and there was nothing to be learned from Clarke's impassive face. Harding could only wait with all the fortitude he could muster, but he long remembered that momentous hour. They were all perfectly still; there was no wind, a heavy grey sky overhung them, and the smoke of the fire went straight up. The gurgle of running water came softly through the silence. At length, when Harding felt the tension becoming unendurable, Clarke, who glanced at his watch, reopened the small bottle.
"We'll try again," he said gravely, and Harding thought he detected anxiety in his tone.