“You had no business to do it!” he retorted sharply. “You’re a dope-fiend already; what right have you to ask any woman to trust a man who can’t sleep without chloral?”
“Chloral?” Faunce swept that aside with a gesture of contempt. “That’s nothing—compared with the rest!”
The doctor eyed him, looking at him from under heavy brows. He saw the mounting passion in the other man’s mood, and waited. After a moment Faunce went on.
“I’ve been in hell for the last few hours! I’ve lived in it for months, or I thought I had; but the last of it has been too much! But I won’t give her up—I wouldn’t give her up if Overton came back from the dead!”
He stopped and sat staring in front of him, his face distorted with emotion. The doctor, watching his visitor narrowly, nodded his head.
“Ah!” he commented slowly. “It’s Overton, then, who’s on your mind?”
Faunce turned and met Gerry’s eyes.
“Yes, it’s Overton!” he flung back. “You’ve read my book and his journal—you’ve read the story of the expedition?”
“I’ve read all that you let us read. I got an impression that you’d cut out a good deal.”
“Yes; I cut out a good deal. Do you remember the description of the loss of the ship? We had to take to the ice-fields, then, with the men and the dogs. You know the rest. The progress we made, our comparative success, and the shelter for the men—the cache that saved us? Then you remember that Overton, Rayburn, and I set out with one sled and some provisions to make a dash for the pole? How the storm overtook us, Rayburn and Overton died from exposure, and I was barely saved?”