"She died," he said heavily. "He buried her yesterday."
He thought that Jack was never going to speak.
Then, "Died?" said Ryder in an odd voice.
"I expect she breathed in a bit of smoke," said McLean, trying for a merciful suggestion.
"And he buried her—?"
Jack was like a child, trying to fit bewildering facts together. McLean's sympathy hurt him like a physical pain. He wondered what it could be like to realize that some loved one you had just talked with, in radiant life, was now gone utterly....
And then he heard Jack laugh. Mad, he thought quickly, turning now to look at him.
Ryder's head was tilted back; Ryder's shoulders were shaking. "Oh, my Aunt!" he gasped hysterically. "My Aunt Clarissa—is that what Hamdi says!"
He sobered instantly and leaned towards McLean. "That looks as if he's done with her—what? Saving his face that way? You're sure it was Aimée—the girl he had just married? Not some other girl—some co-wife or something?"
And as McLean bewilderedly muttered that he was sure, Ryder began to laugh again. To laugh jubilantly, joyously, triumphantly.