As indeed it did.
For the words of Themar had done cruel work. Torn by black suspicion,
Ronador saw no peace in this tranquil Florida world of sun and flower,
of warm south wind and bright-winged bird. He saw only the buzzards,
birds of evil omen. Swayed by fiery gusts of passion, of remorse, of
sullenness and jealousy, he rode on, a prey to sinister resolution. To
confront Diane with his knowledge of those days by the river, this
resolution alternated as frequently with another--to put his fate to
the test and passionately avow his utter trust in one immeasurably
above the rank and file of women. He had racked Themar with insistent
questions, he had quarreled again and again with the Baron since that
night by the pool, until now he had at his finger-ends, the ways and
days of Philip Poynter since the day the Baron had dispatched his young
secretary upon the ill-fated errand to Diane. And as there were finer
moments when his faith in the girl was unmarred by suspicion, so there
were wild, unscrupulous hours of jealousy when he could have killed
Philip and taunted her with insults.
Driving steadily, he came in course of time to a narrow, grass-banked
creek. The nomads on the winding road beside it were many and
beautiful.
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