"My dear fellow, I spent fourteen years in the Mexican army—"
"So did a lot of butchers. If you operated on anybody, I'll bet a pink cow to a blind hoot owl it was with a machete right up in the ranks."
"Crawford, my medical reputation has never been ques—" It had come out of Huerta involuntarily, and he stopped himself with a distinct effort. He stood there a moment, the anger flushing his sallow face dully as he must have realized how far he had let himself go. Deliberately, he allowed himself to settle back against the table. He closed his eyes when he took a drag on the cigarette, did not open them as he exhaled, and spoke. "Let us consider the negative side of my proposition, then. Your condition can be used against you, Crawford. You could be driven quite mad. Not obvious crudities. Not the type of thing Quartel would use. Not making you ride a horse or letting you watch Africano. Not anything as simple to get away from. Merely suggestion, Crawford. Your mind will do the rest. Little things. Insidious things.
"Like the story of a miner who got crushed in a cave-in down at Monterrey. Did that stay with you a long time, Crawford? At night, perhaps, you'd wake up. Remembering. Wondering. Innuendoes, Crawford. Insinuations. Things for the mind to retain and savor. Because it is your mind. I showed you that with the examination. It isn't your legs. That doesn't give you the fear. It's what a man could work with, Crawford, a doctor, who knew every stimulus, every reaction." He took the butt of his cigarette from the jade holder, tossing it absently into the fireplace. Then, still watching the holder, he spoke again, sibilantly. "Do you doubt my ability to do it, Crawford, if necessary?"
Crawford had been watching the doctor with a taut, bleak expression on his gaunt face, and he answered in a hollow, resigned way. "No."
"Then perhaps you will reconsider my proposition."
"No," said Crawford, in that same hollow tone.
Huerta reached beneath his coat for his silver cigarette case, taking a smoke from this to fit it in the holder. He did not raise his eyes to Crawford again as he moved across the room toward the door. He pulled open the portal, and only then, turning toward Crawford, did his glance rise. Again Crawford was swept with that strange, hypnotic dizziness, as he stared into the man's eyes. It struck him as childishly melodramatic, and he wanted to laugh, and could not.
"I think you will regret coming back this morning," said Huerta, in a barely audible voice, before he turned to go out. "I think you will regret it exceedingly."