There had been intrigue and dishonor of a sort in the letter to Houdania, but not this—­Oh, God! not this horrible, beckoning Circe with infamous eyes and scarlet robes luring him to the uttermost pit of the black Inferno.

But Diane had flashed and mocked him as a child when he was sensitive and lonely.  She had always mocked the memory of his mother.  Brown and lovely his cousin’s face rose before him in a willful moment of tenderness—­and then from the shadows came again the flash of topaz and Venetian lamps and the lovely face of Keela.

Something in Carl’s haunted brain snapped.  With a groan of horror and suffering, he pitched forward upon the ground, breathing Philip Poynter’s name like an invocation against the things of evil crowding horribly about him.

It was Dick Sherrill who at last found him.

“Nick!” he called in horror to one of the guides.  “For God’s sake bring some brandy!  No! he’s had too much of that already.  Water!  Water—­can’t somebody hurry!”

“Leave him to me, Mr. Sherrill!” said Nick with quiet authority.  And bending over the motionless figure under the oak, he gently loosened the flannel shirt from the throat, laid a wet cloth upon the forehead and fell to rubbing the rigid limbs.

Presently, with a long, shuddering sigh, Carl opened his eyes, stared at the scared circle of faces about him and instantly tried to rise.

“Don’t, don’t, Carl,” exploded Dick Sherrill solicitously.  “Lie still, man!  I was afraid something would get you.”

Carl fell back indifferently.

Presently with a slight smile he sat up again.

“I’m all right now, Dick,” he insisted.  “It’s nothing at all.  I’ve had something like it once before.  Don’t mention it to my aunt.  She’d likely fuss.”

Dick readily promised.

“Nevertheless,” he insisted, “we’re going to break camp in the morning.  This infernal bog’s got on my nerves.  There are more creepy, oozy things in that cypress swamp over there than a man can afford to meet in the dark.  To the devil with your wild turkeys, Nick!  Quail and duck are good enough for me.”

The camp wagons drove back to Palm Beach in the morning.  Carl was very quiet and evaded Sherrill’s anxious eyes.  He seemed to be brooding morosely over some inner problem which frequently furrowed his forehead and made him very restless.

“Cheer up!” exclaimed Dick reassuringly.  “You’ll feel better when you get a shower and some other clothes.  As for me, I’m going to hunt field mice and ground doves from now on.  Lord, Carl, I’ll never forget that beastly swamp.  Did I tell you that last night, after all our discomfort, I got nothing but a smelly buzzard?  Ugh!” Dick’s hunting interest was steadily on the wane.  He finally came down to birds and humble bees, though when they started he had talked magnificently of alligators and bears.

Carl laughed and relapsed into brooding silence.