Faunce swept the thing from him with a gesture that expressed almost physical pain.
“I—I’ve sometimes feared we didn’t, that I had forgotten. There couldn’t be any track, you know; but—he was dead!” He paused again, still breathing hard. Then he turned a haggard look on his auditor. “You’re a doctor; you can help me; you can tell me the truth,” he pleaded in an altered voice. “Answer me—does it take long to freeze to death?”
“Not long—in such a case.”
“He wasn’t conscious—I know he wasn’t conscious; he didn’t know when I went!” Faunce protested, as if the fact of Overton’s numbness to his desertion established an excuse. “When that terrible storm broke, there wasn’t a hope of saving him. We barely saved ourselves. I told the others to come with me to find the body. We found no trace!”
Faunce’s voice broke at last, and he hid his face in his hands. Without comment, the doctor leaned back in his chair again and gazed at him.
There was another pause, and then Gerry rose hastily and left the room, apparently on some urgent errand. When he returned, after an interval of several minutes, he brought a large, flat book with him. He found his visitor as he had expected, still sitting before the fire. Faunce had picked up the poker, and was idly adjusting a fallen log, as if he had at least partially recovered from his emotion; but the vacant expression in his eyes betrayed his total self-absorption. The doctor came to a chair opposite, and, opening the book he had brought, pointed to a rough map or diagram showing the progress of the Overton expedition.
“Now, tell me where you left him.”
Dropping the poker, Faunce leaned over and put his finger on the page.
“About there, as near as I can tell you.”
“Beyond hope of rescue?”