To antagonize him now would be foolhardy.
Wherefore, with a civil expression of regret at his loss of temper and
certain curt instructions, he dismissed Themar, sullen and chastened,
and betook himself to an open window, where he sat smoking thoughtfully
until the house grew quiet and one by one the lights in the valley
faded out. In the web which had engulfed one by one, himself, Themar,
Granberry, Miss Westfall and Poynter, a murderous stranger was
floundering. Who and what he was, it behooved His Excellency to
discover.

"It would seem," reflected the Baron with grim humor as he thought of
his car and his secretary, "that I am paying heavily for my part in a
task not greatly to my liking."

In the adjoining room behind locked doors, Themar worked feverishly
upon a cipher inscribed upon a soiled linen cuff.

CHAPTER XVIII

NOMADS

"Johnny!" said Diane in crisp, distinct tones, "Mr. Poynter has slept
long enough. You'd better call him."

Now it is a regrettable fact that ordinarily this attack would have
provoked a reply of mild impudence from Mr. Poynter's tent, but this
morning a surprising silence lay behind the flapping canvas. Diane
began to hum. When presently investigation proved that Mr. Poynter's
tent was in exemplary order--that Mr. Poynter and his mended shirt were
missing--she went on humming--but to Johnny's amazement, burned her
fingers on the coffeepot; sharply reproved Johnny for staring, and then
curtly suggested that he prepare to break camp that morning, as it was
high time they were on the road.

"As for Mr. Philip Poynter," reflected Diane with delicate disdain, as
she bent over the fire and rolled some baked potatoes away with a
stick, "what can one expect? Men are exceedingly peculiar and
inconsistent and impudent. I haven't the ghost of a doubt that he
found that ridiculous shirt and went off in a huff. And I'm very glad
he did--very glad indeed. I meant he should, though I didn't suppose
with his unconscionable nerve it would bother him in the least. If a
man's sufficiently erratic to blow a tin whistle all the way to
Florida--as Philip certainly is--and maroon himself on somebody else's
lake for fear he'd miss an acquaintance, he'd very likely fly into a
rage when one least expected it and go tramping off in the night. I do
dislike people who fall into huffs about nothing."

Diane burned her fingers again, felt that the fire was unnecessarily
hot upon her face, and