In Which The Baron Pays

"Excellency," said Philip politely, "I have returned."

"Ah!" said the Baron cordially, marveling somewhat at the forbidding glint in the young man's eyes. He was to learn presently its portent.

Within doors, a few men chatted in the billiard room. A girl was singing. The Baron, however, was the only occupant of the comfortable porch-room with the green-shaded lamp, to which Philip had come, passing Themar, who had left a tray of ice and crème de menthe upon the table.

With his customary deliberation the Baron selected a glass, filled it with shaved ice, which he as carefully covered with green crème de menthe, and pushed the delectable result across the table to his secretary.

Philip accepted with a formal expression of thanks.

"I am delighted," rumbled the Baron, sipping his iced mint with keen appreciation, "to see that you are fully recovered."

"And Themar?" inquired Philip coldly.

"He was not injured so badly as I feared," admitted Tregar slowly. "His accident," commented Philip quietly, "was to say the least coincidental--and convenient."

"Just what do you mean?"

"Just why," begged Philip icily, "did you wish me to intrude further upon the hospitality of Miss Westfall?"

"There was an errand," reminded the Baron blandly. "Having discharged it myself, Poynter, I might--er--trust to you to report its consequences. There are possibilities of confidences over a camp fire--"

"You expected me to--spy upon Miss Westfall?"

"Even so.

"Pray believe," said Philip stiffly, "that any confidence of Miss Westfall's would have been to me--as your own."