Sherrill was still heatedly denying the charge when they halted near the Baron.

“You wear a singular costume,” suggested Ronador stiffly, when the formalities of presentation were at an end.  He glanced at the luminous turban and thence to the chains.  Carl, though he had primarily intended the singular rig for the eyes of Tregar, had subtly invited the remark.  His eyes were darkly ironic.

“Prince,” he said guilelessly, “it is a silent parable.”

“Yes?”

“I am ‘The Ghost of a Man’s Past!’” explained the Palmer lightly—­and clanked his chains.  The level glances of the two met with the keenness of invisible swords.

“The heavy, sinister black,” suggested the Palmer, “the flashes of forbidden scarlet—­the hours of a man’s past are scarlet, are they not?—­the cloud above the head, with a treacherous heart of fire, the clanking chains of bondage—­they are all here.  And the skeleton in the closet—­Sire—­behold!” He laughed and flung back his mantle, revealing a perfect skeleton cunningly etched in glaring white upon a close-fitting garment of black.

Did the Baron’s eyes flash suddenly with a queer dry humor?  Philip could not be sure.

With a clank of symbolic chains Carl bowed and withdrew, and coming suddenly upon his cousin, halted and stared.  Long afterward Diane was to remember that she had caught a similar look in the eyes of Ronador.

“Well?” she begged, slightly uncomfortable.

Carl smiled.  Once more his fine eyes were impassive.  With ready grace he admired the delicately-thonged tunic and the beaded sash, the bright turban with the beaten band of silver and the darkly lovely face beneath it.

“It’s a duplicate of the rig my little Indian friend wears,” she explained, smiling.  “Hasn’t Ann told you?  She’s quite wild about it.”

“Ann’s very busy soothing Dick,” laughed Carl and to the malicious satisfaction of that worthy Greek who had been trailing along in his wake, presented Herodotus.  Diane nodded, smiled politely—­and sought delicately to ignore the ancient Greek.  It was a hopeless task.  Mr. Poynter insisted upon considering himself included in every word she uttered.

“Isn’t mother a dear!” exclaimed Ann Sherrill joining them.  “After ragging me desperately for days about Keela, until I threatened to kill myself, and giving me an exceedingly horrid little book on the advisability of curbing one’s most interesting impulses, she’s taken her under her wing to-night and they’re excellent friends.  Philip, dear, go unruffle Dick.  He’s horribly fussed up about something or other.  Carl, I want you to meet Keela.  It’s the most interesting thing I’ve dared in ages and Dad’s been very decent about it.  Dad always did understand me.  He has a sense of humor.”

Diane and Carl followed, laughing, at her heels.  Ann presently found her mother and Keela and unaware of the astonished interest in Carl’s eyes, presented him.