Even the most equable of tempers, it would seem, may now and then prove
crotchety.
And who may say? Mr. Poynter was a young man of infinite resource.
And there were other ways.
CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH THE BARON PAYS
"Excellency," said Philip politely, "I have returned."
"Ah!" said the Baron cordially, marveling somewhat at the forbidding
glint in the young man's eyes. He was to learn presently its portent.
Within doors, a few men chatted in the billiard room. A girl was
singing. The Baron, however, was the only occupant of the comfortable
porch-room with the green-shaded lamp, to which Philip had come,
passing Themar, who had left a tray of ice and _creme de menthe_ upon
the table.
With his customary deliberation the Baron selected a glass, filled it
with shaved ice, which he as carefully covered with green _creme de
menthe_, and pushed the delectable result across the table to his
secretary.
Philip accepted with a formal expression of thanks.
"I am delighted," rumbled the Baron, sipping his iced mint with keen
appreciation, "to see that you are fully recovered."
"And Themar?" inquired Philip coldly.
"He was not injured so badly as I feared," admitted Tregar slowly.
"His accident," commented Philip quietly, "was to say the least
coincidental--and convenient.
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