The two men crossed the hall and entered the private office and sat down. Then Colonel Fortescue noticed that Broussard looked haggard and worn, and his dark skin had turned darker. His face and manner assumed a gravity which made Colonel Fortescue feel that Broussard's errand was not one of pleasure.
"I am on sick leave," said Broussard. "We were in the jungles eight months and every one of us had fever. I was the last to come down, and I had a bad case. The doctors sent me home for three months, and when I go back—for I didn't mean to let the infernal climate out there get the better of me—I shall be in Guam. That's paradise compared with the interior."
"So I know," answered the Colonel, remembering the snakes and mosquitoes and the flies and the beetles and the hideous swamps and sickening forests, the slime, the mud, the marshes and all the horrors of the tropics.
"I should like to spend my leave at Fort Blizzard," Broussard continued, "I thought the climate here was what I needed."
Colonel Fortescue nodded courteously; nobody could stay at Fort Blizzard without the permission of the C. O. But Broussard felt that the Colonel saw through him and beyond him. As Colonel Fortescue would not encourage him by so much as a word, Broussard kept on:
"In the Philippines, I heard some news that was enough to kill a well man, much less a man just out of jungle fever. You perhaps remember, sir, the man Lawrence, who, I heard in the Philippines, had deserted?"
"He was supposed to have deserted," corrected the Colonel, who was always the soul of accuracy.
He glanced at Broussard's face and saw there deep agitation and distress.
"Lawrence has come back," continued Broussard.
Then he stopped, as if unable to keep on, and taking out his handkerchief, wiped away drops upon his forehead, so deadly white under his black hair.