Ortiz smiled very faintly.
"If any airplane arrives in time," he said steadily, "something may be done. But you have rid me of even that hope. I have been poisoned, Senor Bell."
"But the ship's doctor...."
Ortiz, walking rather stiffly beside Bell, shrugged.
"He can do nothing. Will you be good enough to open this door for me? And"—his voice was hoarse for an instant—"assist me to put my hands in my pockets. I cannot. But I would not like them to be seen."
Bill took hold of the writhing fingers. He saw sweat standing out upon Ortiz's forehead. And the fingers closed savagely upon Bell's hands, tearing at them. Ortiz looked at him with a ghastly supplication.
"Now," he said with difficulty, "if you will open the door, Senor Bell...."
Bell slid the door aside. They went in together. People were making the best of boresome weather within, frankly yawning, most of them. But the card-room would be full, and the smoking-room steward would be busy.
"My cabin is upon the next deck below," said Ortiz through stiff lips. "We—we will descend the stairs."