“Surely, surely!” exclaimed Diane hopelessly, “there is some mistake.  There is so much that is utterly without light or coherence.  So much—­”

For the first time Ronador spoke.

“What,” said he sullenly to Philip, “would you have us do?”

“I would have you eliminate the secrecy, the infernal intrigue, the scheming to smother a fire that burned wilder for your efforts,” said Philip civilly.  “I would have you face this thing squarely and investigate it link by link.  I would have you abandon the damnable man-hunt that has sent one man to his death in a Florida swamp and goaded another to a reckless frenzy in which all things were possible.  Themar is dead.  That Granberry is alive is attributable solely to the fact that he was cleverer and keener than any of those who hounded him.  But he has paid heavily for the secret he tried in a drunken moment to sell to Houdania.”

“I do not understand Carl’s part in it,” said Diane.  “Nor can I see—­”

But whatever it was that Diane could not see was not destined for immediate revealment.  At the mention of Carl’s name by her niece, Aunt Agatha came unexpectedly into the limelight with a gurgle and fainted dead away.  Her white affrighted face had been turned upon Ronador in fearful fascination since Diane had struck his arm.  Whether or not she had comprehended any of the talk that followed is a matter of doubt.

When at last, after an interval of flurry and excitement in the camp, Aunt Agatha gasped, sat up again and stared wildly at the sympathetic line of faces about her, Ronador was gone.  When or where he had gone, no one knew.  Only Diane caught the whir of his motor on the road to the north.

“It is better so,” said Tregar compassionately.  “Though his love began in treachery, Miss Westfall, and drove him through the mire, it was, I think, genuine.  A man may not see his hopes take wing with comfort.  And Ronador’s life has not been of the happiest.”

“Excellency,” said Philip who had been wandering restlessly about among the trees, “I know that you are but an indifferent gypsy, and strongly averse to baked potatoes, but such as it is, let me extend to you the hospitality of my camp.  Doubtless Miss Westfall will dispatch Johnny for your motorcycle.”

The Baron accepted.

“There is one thing more, Miss Westfall,” he added as they were leaving.  “Frankness is such a refreshing experience for me, that I must drink of the fount again.  Days back, a headstrong young secretary of mine of considerable nerve and independence and—­er—­intermittent disrespect for his chief—–­having come to grief through a knife of Themar’s intended for another—­refused, with a habit of infernal politeness he has which I find most maddening, refused, mademoiselle, to execute a certain little commission of mine because he quixotically fancied it savored of spying!”

“Tregar!” said Philip with an indignant flush.  And added with an uncomfortable conviction of disrespect, “Er—­Excellency!”