The girl smiled faintly.

“Tell me,” she begged impetuously, “what was that other reason why I must not journey to Florida in the van?  You spoke of it by the lily pool in Connecticut.  You remember?”

“Yes,” said Philip uncomfortably.  “Yes, I do remember.”

“What was it?” insisted Diane, her eyes imploring.  “Surely, Philip, you can tell me now!  I—­I did not ask you then—­”

“No,” said Philip wistfully.  “I—­I think you trusted me then, for all our friendship was a thing of weeks.”

“What was it?” asked Diane, grown very white.

“I am sorry,” said Philip simply.  “I may not tell you that, Diane.  I am pledged.”

“To whom?”

“It is better,” said Philip, “if I do not tell.”

Diane sharply caught her breath and stared at the sinister wraiths rising in floating files from the swamp stream.

“Philip—­was it—­was it Themar’s knife?”

“Yes,” said Philip.

“And the man to whom you are pledged is—­Baron Tregar!”

“Yes,” said Philip again.

“Why were you in the forest that night of storm and wind?”

Philip glanced keenly at the girl by the creek.  Her profile was stern and very beautiful, but the finely moulded lips had quivered.

“What is it, Diane?” he begged gently.  “Why is it that you must ask me all these things that I may not honorably answer?”

“I—­I do not see why you may not answer.”

“An honorable man respects his promise scrupulously!” said Philip with a sigh.  “You would not have me break mine?”

“Why,” cried Diane, “did you fight with Themar in the forest?  Why have you night after night watched my camp?  Oh, Philip, surely, surely, you can tell me!”

Philip sighed.  With his infernal habit of mystery and pledges, the Baron had made this very hard for him.

“None of these things,” he said quietly, “I may tell you or anyone.”

Diane leaned forward and laid her hand upon his arm.

“Philip,” she whispered with dark, tragic eyes fixed upon his face, “who—­who shot the bullet that night?  Do you know?”

“Yes,” said Philip, “I—­I am very sorry.  I think I know—­”

“You will not tell me?”

“No.”

Diane drew back with a shudder.

“I know the answers to all my questions!” she said in a low voice, and there was a great horror in her eyes.  “Oh, Philip, Philip, go!  If—­if you could have told me something different—­”

“Is it useless to ask you to trust me, Diane?”

“Go!” said Diane, trembling.

By the swamp the gray ghosts fell to dancing with locked, transparent hands.

Blood-red the sun glimmered through the pines and struck fire from a gray, cold world.

Philip bent and caught her hands, quietly masterful.