over that. Why? Lord, Dick, you do ask foolish questions! Our
beautiful lady's an archer and a capital one too, says Johnny--even if
she does like beastly silver-rod."

Somewhat out of sorts the Duke of Connecticut set off abruptly through
the trees with the dog at his heels.

Having climbed over log and boulder to a road which cleft the mountain,
he kept on to the north, descending again presently to the level of the
camp, smoking abstractedly and whistling now and then for Richard
Whittington, who was prone to ramble. Philip was debating whether or
not he had better turn back, for the moon was already edging the black
ravine with fire, when a camp fire and the silhouette of a lonely
camper loomed to the west among the trees. Philip puffed forth a
prodigious cloud of smoke and seated himself on a tree stump.

"My! My!" said he easily. "Must be our invalid and his rumpus
machine. Whittington, we're just in the mood to-night, you and I, to
wander over there and tell him that he's not getting half so much over
on us as he thinks he is. I've a mind to send you forward with my
card."

Philip's eyes narrowed and he laughed softly. Tearing a sheet of paper
from a notebook he took from his pocket, he scribbled upon it the
following astonishing message:

"The Duke of Connecticut desires an audience. Do not kick the courier!"

Accustomed by now to carry birch-bark messages to Diane, Richard
Whittington waggled in perfect understanding and trotted off obediently
toward the fire with Philip close at his heels.

Conceivably astonished, the camper presently picked up the paper which
Mr. Whittington dropped at his feet, and read it. As Philip stepped
lazily from the trees he turned.

It was Baron Tregar. Both men stared.

"The Duke of Connecticut!" at length rumbled the Baron with perfect
gravity. "I am overwhelmed."

Philip, much the more astonished of the two, laughed and bowed.

"Excellency," said he formally, "I am indeed astonished."

"Pray be seated!" invited the Baron, his eyes more friendly than those
of his guest. "I, too, have taken to the highway, Poynter, on yonder
motorcycle and I have lost my way." He sniffed in disgust. "I am
dining," he added dryly, "if one may dignify the damnable proceeding by
that name, on potatoes which I do not in the least know how to bake
without reducing them to cinders. I bought them a while back at a
desolate, God-forsaken farmhouse. Heaven deliver me from c