Diane of the Green Van

"I'm all right now," said Carl dully. "And I've got to go on. I--I can't meet Diane." He drew something from his pocket and jabbed it in his arm.

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.

"Keela will guide you," said Philip. "She could follow the trail with her eyes closed. The horses are saddled at the edge of camp. You'll be there by daylight."

He smiled and held out his hand and his eyes were encouraging. The hands of the two men tightened. Carl stumbled blindly away at the heels of the Indian girl. Philip watched them go--watched Keela lead the way with the lithe, soft tread of a wild animal, and mount--watched Carl swing heavily into the saddle and follow. Silhouetted darkly against the watery moon, the silent riders filed off into the swamp-world to the south. For an instant Philip experienced a sudden flash of misgiving but Philip was just and honorable in all things and having disciplined himself to faith in his friend, maintained it.

Then his eyes wandered slowly to the wigwam of Diane. Thinking of the story of the candle-stick, with his mouth twisted into a queer, wry smile, Philip fumbled for his pipe.

"Requiescat in pace," said Philip, "the hopes of Philip Poynter!"