“I am willing,” admitted Philip politely, “to hear why I should alter my views.”

“Mon Dieu, Poynter!” boomed the Baron in exasperation, “you are maddening.  When you are politest, I fume and strike fire—­here within!”

“Mental arson!” shrugged the Duke of Connecticut, relighting his cigarette with a blazing twig.  “For that singular crime.  Excellency, my deepest apologies.”

The Baron stared, frowned, and laughed.  One may know very little of one’s secretary, after all.

“You are a curious young man!” said he.

The Duke of Connecticut admitted that this might be so.  Hay, therapeutically, had effected an astonishing revolution in a nature disposed congenitally to peace and trustfulness.  Local applications of hay had made him exceedingly suspicious and hostile.  So much so indeed that for days now he had slept by day, to the total wreck of his aesthetic reputation, and watched by night, convinced that Miss Westfall’s camp was prone to strange and dangerous visitors.  Excellency no doubt remembered the knife and the bullet.

The Baron sighed.

“Poynter,” he said simply, “to a man of my nature and diplomatic position, a habit of candor is difficult.  I wonder, however, if you would accept my word of honor as a gentleman that I know as little of this treacherous bullet as you; that for all I am bound to secrecy, my sincerest desire is to protect Miss Westfall from the peculiar consequences of this damnable muddle, to clear up the mystery of the bullet, and for more selfish reasons to protect her from the romantic folly of the man with the music-machine!”

Philip, his frank, fine face alive with honest relief, held out his hand.

“Excellency,” said he warmly, “one may learn more of his chief over a camp fire, it seems, than in months of service.  Our paths lie parallel.”  There was a subtle compact in the handshake.

“What,” questioned the Baron presently, “think you, are my fine gentleman’s plans, Poynter?”

Philip reddened.

“Excellency,” he admitted, “I have definite information of his plans which I did not seek.”

“And the source?”

“Miss Westfall’s servant.”

“Ah!”

“There are certain atmospheric conditions,” regretted Philip, “intensely bad for hay-camps, wherefore I found myself obliged to seek an occasional understudy who would not only blaze the trail for me but do faithful sentry duty in my absence.  And Johnny, Excellency, whom I pledged to this secret service, uncomfortably insists upon reporting to me much unnecessary detail.  He has developed a most unreasoning dislike for music-machines and musical gypsies.”

“There appears to be a general prejudice against them,” admitted the Baron grimly.

“A while back, then,” resumed Philip, “Johnny chanced upon the information that in January Miss Westfall will be a guest of Ann Sherrill’s at Palm Beach.  So will our minstrel—­still incognito—­”