"I don't see how you overcame his objections."
Harding broke into a dry smile.
"In the kind of game I played with the doctor your strength depends on how much you're willing to lose, and I put down all I had upon the table. That beat him, because he wasn't willing to stake as much."
"You mean your life? Of course, I know you were in some danger; but was it so serious?"
"It would have been if I'd shot him; and I think he saw I meant that.
What's more, I may have to do so yet."
Harding's tone was quietly matter of fact, but Benson no longer wondered at Clarke's submission. He had been a soldier and had faced grave risks, but he was inclined to think that, even before he had weakened it by excess, his nerve had never been so good as this young American's.
"Well," he said, "I'm fond of Blake, and I recognize my debt to him; we were once comrades in an adventure that was more dangerous than this; but I'm not sure that I'd have been ready to go as far as you. In a way, though, you were quite justified; the fellow no doubt set a trap for us. But if he's to have a fair chance, we had better give him something to eat. If he's as hungry as you are, he needs it."
He called Clarke to join them by the fire. Weariness had deepened the lines on the doctor's face, and there were puffy pouches under his eyes. He was obviously exhausted and scarcely able to move, but there was something malignant in his look. He ate greedily, without speaking, and then glanced up at the others.
"Well," Benson asked, "what's your opinion?"
"Your friend's state is dangerous. How he came to suffer from a severe attack of malaria in this bracing climate, I can't determine; and, after all, it's not an important point. He can't live much longer at his present temperature."