"Three years."
"Three years," mused Dane, gazing into space out of his slitted eyes
of arctic blue; "yes, that's some little time. Bailey.... She is
well--I think I said that.... And very prosperous, and greatly admired
... and happy--I believe."
The other waited.
Dane picked up a linen map, looked at it, fiddled with the corner.
Then, carelessly: "She is not married," he said.... "Here's the
Huallaga River as I located it four years ago. Seljan and O'Higgins
were making for it, I believe.... That red crayon circle over there
marks the habitat of the Uta fly. It's worse than the Tsetse. If
anybody is hunting death--esta aqui!... Here is the Putumayo
district. Hell lies up here, just above it.... Here's Iquitos, and
here lies Para, three thousand miles away.... Were you going to say
something?"
But if Clive had anything to say he seemed to find no words to say it.
And he only folded his arms on the table's edge and looked down at the
stained and crumpled map.
"It will take us about a year," remarked Dane.
Clive nodded, but his eye involuntarily sought the irregular red
circle where trouble of all sorts might be conveniently ended by a
perfectly respectable Act of God.
* * * * *
Actus Dei nemini facit injuriam.