Again came the gasping rattle; this time there was no rally.
Blake thrust himself between Miss Leslie and the crumpled figure.
“Get back around the tree,” he said harshly.
“What are you going to do?”
“That’s my business,” he replied. He thrust his burning-glass into her hand. “Here; go and build a fire, if you can find any dry stuff.”
“You’re not going to– You’ll bury him!”
“Yes. Whatever he may have been, he’s dead now, poor devil!”
“I can’t go,” she half whispered, “not until–until I’ve learned– Do you–can you tell me just what is paranoia?”
Blake studied a little, and tapped the top of his head.
“Near as I can say, it’s softening of the brain.–up there.”