"Days back," rumbled the Baron thoughtfully, "I assigned to Themar the
task of discovering the identity of the man who--er--acquired a certain
roadster of mine and who, I felt fairly certain, would not lose track
of Miss Westfall but Themar, Poynter, came to grief--"
"Yes?" said Philip coolly. "You interest me exceedingly."
"He made his way back to me after many weeks of illness," said the
Baron slowly, "with a curious tale of a terrible thrashing, of a barge
and mules, of rough men who kicked him about and consigned him to a
city jail under the malicious charge of a mule-driver who swore that he
loved not black-and-tans--"
"Lord!" said Philip politely; "that was tough, wasn't it?"
"Just what, Poynter," begged the Baron, "is a black-and-tan?"
Mr. Poynter fancied he had heard the term before. It might have
reference to the color of a man's skin and hair.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the Baron's camp. The Baron himself
was the first to break it.
"Poynter," said he bluntly, "the circumstances of our separation at
Sherrill's have engendered, with reason, a slight constraint. There
was a night when you grievously misjudged me--"
"I am willing," admitted Philip politely, "to hear why I should alter
my views.
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