"
"Pray believe," flashed Philip, "that I am not inclined to question.
That fact," he added coldly, "is in itself a handicap."
"The lady's name," explained the Baron quietly, "is Westfall--Diane
Westfall."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Philip and savagely bit his lip.
"Ah, then you know the lady!" said the Baron softly.
"I regret," said Philip formally, "that I have not had the honor of
meeting Miss Westfall." But he saw vividly again a girl straight and
slender as a silver birch, with firm, wind-bright skin and dark, mocking
eyes. There were hemlocks and a dog--and Dick Sherrill had been
talkative over billiards the night before.
"Miss Westfall," added Philip guilelessly, "is the owner of the Glade
Farm below here in the valley."
"Ah, yes," nodded Tregar. "It is so I have heard." His glance lingered
still upon Philip's face in subtle inquiry. Bending its Circean head,
Temptation laughed lightly in Philip Poynter's eyes. The girl in the
caravan was winding away by dusty roads--out of his life perhaps. And
singular as the mission was, its aim was harmless.
"Our lady," said the Baron smoothly, "camps by night. From an aeroplane
one may see much--a camp--a curl of smoke--a caravan. Later one may walk
and, walking, one may lose his way--to find it again with perfect ease by
means of a forest camp fire.
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