“Now do you understand?” he asked.
The Venezuelan gave no answering smile. His eyes shone with suspicion. Roddy recognized that between his desire to believe and some fact that kept him from believing, the man was acutely suffering.
“Tell me, in a word,” demanded Vega sharply, “give me your word you do not know her.”
“I don’t see,” said Roddy, “that this is any of your damned business!”
The face of Vega checked him. At his refusal to answer, Roddy saw the look of jealousy that came into the man’s eyes and the torment it brought with it. He felt a sudden pity for him, a certain respect as for a fellow-sufferer. He himself had met Inez Rojas but twice, but, as he had told her, he knew now why he had come to Venezuela. This older man had known Inez for years, and to Roddy, arguing from his own state of mind regarding her, the fact was evidence enough that Vega must love her also. He began again, but now quietly, as he would argue with a child.
“I see no reason for making any mystery of it,” he said. “I did meet Miss Rojas. But I can’t say I know her. I met her when she was out riding with her groom. I thought she was an American. She needed some help, which I was able to give her. That is all.”
Vega approached Roddy, leaning forward as though he were about to spring on him. His eyes were close to Roddy’s face.
“And what was the nature of this help?” he demanded.
“You are impertinent,” said Roddy.
“Answer me!” cried the Venezuelan. “I have the right. No one has a better right.”