Philip looked on with disapproval.
"No," said Carl, meeting his glance. "No, not so very often, Philip.
Just lately, since Sherrill and I camped in the Glades. There's
something--something very tight here in my head whenever I grow
excited. When it snaps I'm done for a while, but this helps."
Philip's fine, frank mouth was very grim.
"Carl," he said quietly, "off there to the south is the eccentric swamp
home of a singular man, a philosopher and a doctor. He's Keela's
foster father. I've met and smoked with him. I want you to go to him
and rest. The Indians do that. He's what you need. And tell him
you're down and out. You'll go--for me?"
"Anywhere," said Carl.
"Tell him about the dope and every other hell-conceived abuse with
which you've tormented your body. Tell him about the infernal
tightness in your head."
"Yes," said Carl.
"But this thing of the candlestick," added Philip bitterly, "tell to no
man. You're strong enough to start now?"
"Yes."
Philip left the wigwam. When at length he returned, there was a dark,
slight figure at his heels, turbaned and tunicked, a guide whom he
trusted utterly.
A burning wave swept suddenly over Carl's body and left him very cold.
Philip could not know, of course.
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