Bell beckoned to the ship's doctor.
"Get him bandaged up," he ordered harshly. "There's no need for him to die."
The body was writhing only feebly, now. Ortiz looked up at him, and managed a smile. Again there was that incredible impression of the body not belonging to Ortiz, or Ortiz as a sane and whole and honorable, admirable man, and the feebly writhing body with its clutching hands as some evil thing that had properly been defeated and killed.
he doctor bent down. It was useless, of course. He made futile movements.
"I wish to speak to my friend, Senor Bell," said Ortiz weakly. "I—I have not long."
Bell knelt beside him.
"The Master's—deputy in Rio," panted Ortiz weakly, almost in a whisper, "is—is Ribiera. In Buenos Aires I—I do not know. There was a man—the one who poisoned me—but I killed him. Secretly. I do not think—the Master knows. I pray that—"
He stopped. He could not speak again. But he smiled, and a few seconds later Bell clenched his hands. Ortiz was gone.