“I know,” said Diane.  “It isn’t that I mind—­so much.  It—­it’s the other.”

“Of course!” said Philip gently, “but, somehow, I can’t believe it’s true, Diane.  There’s logic against it.  Why, Great Scott!” he added cheerfully, for all there was a lump in his throat at the wistful tragedy in the girl’s eyes, “there’s Theodomir’s own statement in the candlestick—­have you forgotten?”

“It spoke of—­of marriage?”

“It said that Theodomir had gone into the Glades hunting and had come upon the Indian village.  There he met and married your mother and later divorced her.”

“If I could only be sure!” faltered Diane.

“You can,” said Philip, “for I am going back to the Glades to-morrow to hunt this thing to earth.  The old chief will know.”

“But the trail, Philip?”

“There are ways of finding it,” said Philip reassuringly.

He was so cool and matter-of-fact, so entirely cheerful and resourceful, that Diane found his comfortable air of confidence contagious.  Only for a time, however.  A little later she glanced mutely into his face, met his eyes, flushed scarlet and fell to shaking again.

“Philip!” she whispered.

“Yes?” There was a wonderful gentleness in Philip’s voice.

“I—­I can’t go back to camp yet, for all it’s raining.”

“Well,” said Philip comfortably, “rain be hanged.  We’ll wait a bit.”

Diane gave a sigh of relief and lay very quiet.

Philip wisely said nothing.  He shifted the lantern so his own face might be in the shadow and for some reason of his own, fell to speaking of Carl.  He told of Mic-co, of the quiet hours of healing by the pool, of another night of storm and stress when Carl had gone forth into the wilds with the Indian girl.

For the first time now he felt that he had pierced the girl’s shell of tragic introspection and caught her interest.  Though the rain came faster and the lantern flickered, Philip went on with his quiet story.

He spoke of the forces that had fired Carl to drunken resentment, the defection of his comrades, his conviction of injustice in the apportionment of the Westfall estate, the climax of his sensitive rebellion against Diane’s attitude toward his mother, the morose and morbid loneliness which had driven him relentlessly to ruin.

“What did he hope to gain by writing to Houdania?” asked the girl a little bitterly.

“Money!” said Philip firmly.  “He fancied he could frighten them and put a heavy price upon his silence.  Later when his letter to Houdania was ignored he altered his plans.  If he could prove that you were the daughter of Theodomir and not of Norman Westfall—­then the great estate of his uncle would revert to him.  Before he could act further, things began to happen.  And then,” added Philip thoughtfully, “comes another dark patch in the mystery.  Carl’s story must have crossed wires with something else—­something