“Is it a lie,” whispered Pethwick after long thought, “to cover the discovery of gold?”
M. Demetriovich shook his head.
“That boy hasn't enough imagination to concoct a fragment of his fantastic tale. The thing happened.”
“Then in God's name, what is Cesare going to do to us tomorrow?”
“Cesare would never have given away all that gold,” decided the old savant slowly.
“Unless—he means to recoup it all tomorrow.”
M. Demetriovich shook his head.
“Cesare might have put on the paint—he could never have thought up such an elaborate mental disguise. That is far beyond him.” The two men brooded. At last the savant hazarded:
“It may be possible that the Bolsheviki have quit using gold. I believe there is a plan to use timechecks down in their socialistic program.”
The engineer jumped another speculation, “The old Incans used gold as a common metal—the old Incans—sun-worshipers, who sacrifice living men to. their deity——”
The two scientists sat in silence. From the icefields high above the chasm of the Rio Infiernillo came a great sighing wind. It breathed in on them out of the blackness; its cold breath chilled their necks, their hands, their wrists; it breathed on their ankles and spread up under their trousers, chilling their knees and loins.
The men shivered.
CHAPTER IV
Pethwick awoke out of some sort of nightmare about Incan sun-worshipers. He could hear the groans of victims about to be sacrificed and even after he had shuddered awake his sense of impending calamity persisted. He lifted himself on an elbow and stared about the tent. The sun shining straight into his face, no doubt, had caused his fantasy about the sun-worshipers.
He got to a sitting posture, yawning and blinking his eyes. Outside the day was perfectly still. A bird chirped querulously. In the corral he could hear the llamas snuffling. Then he heard repeated the groan that had disturbed him in his sleep. It came from the secretary's cot.
The engineer glanced across, then came fully awake. Instead of the young author, Pethwick saw an old, white-haired man lying in the cot with the back of his head showing past the blankets. The engineer stared at this thing blankly. A suspicion that Demetriovich had changed cots passed through his mind, but a glance showed him the old savant still asleep on his proper bed.
The engineer got up, stepped across and leaned over this uncanny changeling. It took him a full half-minute to recognize, in the drawn face and white hair of the sleeper, the boy Standifer.
A shock went over the engineer. He put his hand on the author's shoulder.
“Standifer!” he shouted. “Standifer!”
As Standifer did not move, Pethwick called to the professor with an edge of horror in his voice. The old savant sprang up nervously. “What is it?”
“Here, look at this boy. See what has happened!”
The scientist stared from his cot, rubbed his eyes and peered.
“Is—is that Standifer?”
“Yes.”
“What's happened to him?”
“I haven't the slightest idea, professor.”
The scientist jabbed his feet into his slippers and came across the tent. He shook the sleeper gently at first, but gradually increased his energy till the cot squeaked and the strange white head bobbed on the pneumatic pillow.
“Standifer! Standifer!”
But the youth lay inert.
He stripped the covers and the underclothes of the young man.
Standifer lay before them naked in the cold morning air; his undeveloped physique looked bluish; then, on the groin of his right leg, Pethwick noticed an inflamed splotch that looked like a severe burn.
M. Demetriovich turned to his medicine-chest and handed Pethwick an ammonia bottle to hold under the boy's nose while he loaded a hypodermic with strychnin solution. A moment later he discharged it into the patient's arm.
A shudder ran through Standifer at the powerful stimulant. His breathing became better and after a bit he opened his eyes. He looked drowsily at the two bending over him and after a minute whispered—
“What's matter?”
“How do you feel?”
“Sleepy. Is it time to get up?”
“Do you ache—hurt?”
The secretary closed his eyes, evidently to take stock of his feelings.
“My head aches. My——my leg burns.”
He reached down and touched the inflamed spot. As the strychnin took firmer hold the boy became alert enough to show surprise at his own state. He eased his sore leg to the floor and sat up on the edge of the cot. Both his companions began a series of questions.
Standifer had no idea what was the matter with him. He had not bruised either his head or his leg. Nothing had happened to him through the night, that he recalled, nor on the preceding day. After a bit, he remembered the sale of his books and drew from under his pillow the gold which he had received.
A thought crossed Pethwick's mind that Pablo Pasca had crept in during the night and had assaulted the sleeper. Demetriovich took the bag and inspected it, smelled of it gingerly. Pethwick watched him with some curiosity.
“How did you bring this home yesterday afternoon, James?” queried the old man.
The secretary thought.
“In my pocket.”
“In your right trousers pocket?”
Standifer made a movement to place his right and left sides and said:
“Yes.”
“Put on your trousers.”
The youth did so, working his sore leg carefully inside.
