She started with horror, and in spite of herself glanced at Jack's hands.
"He killed himself," Jack added quickly.
Her hands betrayed a movement of relief. There was a silence.
"What about you?" mumbled Jack, scowling. "What are you doing up here? Where is Davy?"
"I have something to show you," she said, with a strange look.
He followed her up the slope. He wondered why there were three tents pitched. The third was Jean Paul's A-tent. Mary threw back one of the flaps, and he saw a blanketed form inside.
"The kid!" he murmured, full of anxious concern. But even as he said it, he saw that it was not Davy. Stooping, and looking farther within, he saw a gaunt travesty of the face of Frank Garrod. The eyes were closed.
Something clutched at Jack's heart. He fell back. "Good God!" he muttered. "You've got him! Is he dead?"
She shook her head. "Sleeping," she said. "Come away a little."
They sat on the other side of the fire. "Davy has gone back to the cache," she said, taking care to avoid Jack's eyes, "for milk powder, if there is any, and whiskey, and any medicines he can find. He will be back before dark."