Herriard turned and faced him. “Gastineau,” he said, wondering apprehensively what was to come, “why did you not tell me?”
Gastineau turned too; the look of surprised annoyance had given way to a smile which was not exactly reassuring. “Yes,” he replied coolly; “I have recovered the use of my limbs—no thanks to you.”
The light tone in which the last words were spoken did not disguise their intentional significance. To Herriard they were obscure, and he let them pass.
“But, Gastineau, why this secrecy?”
The other man’s mouth was drawn to one side in a sneer. “Could you expect anything else?” he returned.
“Surely,” Herriard answered quite frankly. “I don’t know whether you kept it secret to give me a pleasant surprise,” he added, with a touch of irony.
“A pleasant surprise!” Gastineau repeated the words with an incredulous drawl.
“You might have known how rejoiced I should be at your recovery.”
Gastineau laughed unpleasantly. “You know how wrong-headed I am apt to be. I might have doubted even your satisfaction.”
Herriard looked at him in wonder at the line he was taking. “You do me less than justice,” he protested.