Quartel allowed his narrowed eyes to observe the odd way Cabezablanca's head hung, twisted around from the line of his shoulders. "That's what it looks like. Where did you find him?"
"Yes," said Doctor Huerta, from the door. "Where did you find him, Crawford?"
He had on a gaudy black-and-gold dressing-gown with satin lapels and slippers of red leather. His face had never looked more dissolute. The dim light seemed to draw out the singular, jaundiced corruption of his sallow flesh. His heavy lids were almost closed over his eyes, veined and pouched, and one of them twitched visibly. He had both hands in the pockets of his bathrobe, and they were visibly closed into fists. Merida stood behind him. She had on a house gown of blue cashmere, evidently donned hurriedly. There was something Indian about her dark, aquiline face; her black hair hanging long and straight about her shoulders.
"I told you," said Crawford. "Out in the brush."
"You didn't tell me," said Huerta.
"I told Quartel," said Crawford.
"He didn't tell me what happened," said Quartel.
"To Crawford," said Merida, "or Whitehead?"
"Yes," said Doctor Huerta, moving tiredly across the porch. "What did happen to you, Crawford?"
"We ain't interested in that now," said Quartel. "I'd like to know what happened to Whitehead first."