at his feet. Somehow that ugly flash of suspicion had persisted. Why
had the Baron wished him to stay in the camp of Diane? . . . What was
the portent of his peculiar interest anyway?

Philip sighed.

"Do you know, Nero," he confided suddenly, patting the dog's shaggy
head, "my life is developing certain elements of intrigue and mystery
exceedingly offensive to my spread-eagle tastes. There's a knife and a
bullet now, Johnny's two men and the auto, and a cuff and a most
mysterious link between our lady and the Baron. I'll be hanged if I
like any of it. And why in thunder did Themar crib an aeroplane and
bump his fool head?" He fell suddenly thoughtful.

"As for you, old top," he added presently, "you ought to go home. Dick
will be fussing."

Nero waggled ambiguously. Philip nodded.

"Right, old man," he admitted with sudden gravity. "I can always
depend upon you to set me right. It's nothing like so essential for
you to go as it is for me. You did right to mention it. I ought to
dig out--all the more because the Baron wants me to stay--but I've been
thinking a bit this afternoon and unusual problems demand unusual
solutions. You'll grant that?" Nero politely routed an excursive bug
from his path and lay down to listen.

"Mr. Poynter!" called a voice from the darkling trees behind him.

Mr. Poynter smiled and fell deliberately to filling the bowl of his