"Ah, Themar!" said he softly, and laughed with peculiar relish.
Themar shifted restlessly.
"Excellency," he began, uncomfortably aware of unpleasant mockery in
his chief's keen eyes.
The Baron matched the tips of his powerful fingers and studied them
intently.
"Themar," said he acidly, "within a fortnight I have lost a car whose
burned remains were found several miles from here, and a secretary
whose friendship and invaluable service I prize more highly than your
life. I feel that you can to some extent explain both of these
disasters."
"Excellency knows," reminded Themar glibly, "that the car was stolen
from the Sherrill garage."
"I have merely supposed so," corrected the Baron coldly. And rising he
inspected the curious scars upon his valet's throat with interest.
"Odd!" he purred, "that an aeroplane may simulate the marks of tearing
fingers." Swept by a sudden gust of terrible anger, he gripped
Themar's shoulders and shook him until the valet's face was dark with
fear.
"Why," hissed the Baron, "did you lie? Why did you go to the Westfall
camp and attack Poynter? Why did you swear these scars came from a
disastrous flight in a stolen aeroplane? Why have you been spying upon
Miss Westfall when I expressly forbade it?"
"Excellency," choked Themar, horrified by the Baron's unprecedented
display of passion, "there was a blunder--I dared not tell.
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