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."

Somehow on the Baron's tongue the escapade became insidious duplicity.
Philip flushed, acutely conscious of a significant stirring of his
conscience.

"I may fly with Sherrill this afternoon," he said with marked reluctance.

"And at sunset?"

"I may walk," said Philip, shrugging.

"Permit me," said the Baron gratefully as he rose, "to thank you. The
service is--ah--invaluable."