She looked sorry. In fact, her manner was exquisitely expressive of sympathy, but Ormsgill contrived to answer lightly.
"The thing is not altogether unnatural," he said. "A good many of your father's troops are sick, too. After all, there are worse troubles than a slight attack of African fever, and I shall no doubt get well again presently."
"And you are still—a very little—lame."
It did not strike Ormsgill as significant that she should have noticed this, though he had only moved a pace or two when she came in. Indeed, nothing of that kind would have occurred to him then, for while his blood stirred within him he was struggling fiercely to retain his self-control.
"It is possible that I shall always be a little lame," he said, and laughed somewhat bitterly. "Still, I'm not sure that it matters. You see, I don't even know what will be done with me when we reach the coast."
"You have certainly enemies there—as well as friends. There are gentlemen of some influence who had an interest in Herrero's business, and it seems they have made rather serious complaints against you. It is even suggested that you brought about his death. We, of course, know that such complaints are absurd."
"I wonder why?"
Benicia leaned forward a little with her eyes fixed on him. "It is only strangers one wastes compliments upon," she said. "I think you and I are friends."
She had, it seemed to Ormsgill, not gone far enough, and there was an elusive something in her manner which conveyed the impression that she realized it. He felt his heart beat unpleasantly fast, but he controlled himself, and while he sat silent Benicia's fan closed with a curious little snap. One could have fancied that she had expected him to speak.
"Still," she said, "there are others who might believe those complaints, and—though you have friends—justice is not always certain in this country. Are you wise in staying here?"