Crawford's boots made a soft muffled sound across the Aubusson rug of the living-room. He lowered himself heavily into the Turkish toweling which upholstered the movable cushions of the willow chairs by the front windows. For the first time he felt fully the toll the preceding night had exacted from him. His black beard failed to hide the gaunt, driven hollows beneath his cheeks, and there was something feverish in the glow of his eyes. He stared absently about the spacious, cool room. Rockland had refurnished this chamber not two years ago, and as many times as Crawford had been in it, he could never get used to such luxury in this harsh, barren land. Huerta had followed him into the house, halting in the entrance hall for a word with Merida, and now the doctor stepped into the living-room, closing the door behind him. He stood there a moment, studying Crawford.
"Merida will dress and be down for breakfast," he said, absently. He moved to the pier table of rich, figured British oak at one side of the room, opening one of the doors to lift out a cut-glass decanter. "Perhaps you would like a drink—after what happened, no?" His face managed to convey the effort the slightest physical exertion seemed to cause him, as he poured the liquor. Then his red Chinese slippers slid over the Aubusson's thick nap to Crawford. As he bent forward to hand Crawford the drink, their glances met. Perhaps it was a trick of the illumination from the window. The pupils of Huerta's eyes seemed to dilate and contract and dilate again, small pin points of glittering light flaring and dying and flaring once more beneath the jet-black surface. It filled Crawford with a vague dizziness. "Why did you bring Whitehead back, Crawford?" murmured the doctor. "It seems to me you were rather in a position to escape, out there." He waited a moment, but Crawford did not answer. "When you first came, I considered it necessary to guard you," said Huerta, finally. "Perhaps I was taking undue precautions. It seems you would have stayed anyway. Why, Crawford? Do you still maintain you didn't murder Rockland?"
"That's right." It came from Crawford in a flat defiance.
"Then the only way you could prove your innocence would be to find who really did murder Rockland," said Huerta. "Do you think the murderer is here?"
"I have no doubt of it," said Crawford.
"Just what did happen out there?" Huerta said softly, bending toward Crawford with the liquor.
Crawford took the drink, downed it neat before answering. "What do you think?"
"I think you surprised a lot of people," said Huerta. "And gave them a different estimation of you than they had possessed before." He leaned backward slightly. "Why should Whitehead want to kill you?"
"Who said he did?"
"I never knew such a secretive man," said Huerta. "You refuse to give one inch, don't you? Very well. Let us assume that Whitehead wanted to kill you. Why should he?"