Now as it was manifestly impossible for the Baron and his beard to be secreted among the lilies which Aunt Agatha was wildly gathering up, Philip looked off in the wood to the north.

There was a motorcyclist approaching who had conceivably felt sufficient interest in the long black car to follow it.

The Baron arrived, gallantly swept off his cap and bowed, and suddenly conscious of an indefinable hostility in the attitudes of the silent quartet, stared from one to the other with some pardonable astonishment.

“Tregar!” shouted the Prince hotly, “you will account to me for this officious espionage.”

The Baron stroked his beard.

“One may pay his respects to Miss Westfall?” he begged with gentle sarcasm.  “It is a sufficiently popular epidemic, I should say, to claim even me.  Besides,” he added dryly, “in reality I have come in answer to a letter of Poynter’s.  It has interested me exceedingly to find you on the road ahead of me.”

“Baron Tregar,” said Diane warmly, “you are very welcome, I assure you.  Mr. Poynter has been pleased to inject certain elements of melodrama into his chance intrusion.  Otherwise you would not find us staring at each other in this exceedingly ridiculous manner!”

“Hum!” said the Baron blandly and glanced with interest at the undisturbed countenance of Mr. Poynter.

“A mere matter of justice and belated frankness to Miss Westfall!” said Philip quietly.  “I must respectfully beg Prince Ronador to disclose to her the original motive of his singular and highly romantic courtship.  I bear an urgent message of similar import from one who has had the distinction of playing—­imperial chess!”

They were curious words but not so curious in substance as in effect.  With a cry of startled anger, Ronador leaped back, his eyes flashing terrible menace at Philip.  There was only one pair of eyes, however, quick and keen enough, for all their loveliness, to follow his swift movement or the glitter of steel in his hand.

With a cry of fear and horror, Diane leaped like a wild thing and struck his hand aside.  A revolver fell at her feet.  Aunt Agatha screamed and covered her eyes with her hands.

In the tense quiet came the tranquil lap of the lake, the call of a distant bird, the lazy murmur of many leaves in a morning wind.  Philip stood very quietly by the table.  He looked at Diane; he seemed to have forgotten the others, Tregar thought.

With terrible anger in her flashing eyes, Diane flung the revolver into the placid lake, and facing Ronador, her sweet, stern mouth contemptuous, she met his imploring gaze with one of scathing rebuke.

“Excellency,” she said to Ronador, “whatever else Mr. Poynter may have in mind, there is surely now an explanation which it behooves you to make as a gentleman who is not a coward!”

Ronador moistened his white lips and looked away.