a habit of courtesy and tact
to--arrive accidentally in the path of the caravan--"

"I thank you!" said Philip dryly. "I prefer," he added stiffly, "to
confine my diplomatic activities to more conventional channels."

"When I assure you," purred the Baron with his maddening precision of
speech, "that this information is of peculiar value to me and without
immediate significance to the lady herself, I am sure that you will not
feel bound to withhold your--hum--your cooeperation in so slight a
personal inconvenience, singular as it may all seem to you, I am right?"

Philip reddened uncomfortably.

"I am to understand that I would undertake this peculiar mission equipped
with no further information than you have offered?"

"Exactly so," said the Baron. "I must beg of you to undertake it without
question."

"Pray believe," flashed Philip, "that I am not inclined to question.
That fact," he added coldly, "is in itself a handicap."

"The lady's name," explained the Baron quietly, "is Westfall--Diane
Westfall."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Philip and savagely bit his lip.

"Ah, then you know the lady!" said the Baron softly.

"I regret," said Philip formally, "that I have not had the honor of
meeting Miss Westfall." But he saw vividly again a girl straight and
slender as a silver birch, with firm, wind-bright skin and dark, mocking
eyes. There were hemlocks and a dog--and Dick Sherrill had been
talkative over billiards the night before.

"Miss Westfall," added Philip guilelessly, "is the owner of the Glade
Farm below here in the valley."

"Ah, yes," nodded Tregar. "It is so I have heard." His glance lingered
still upon Philip's face in subtle inquiry. Bending its Circean head,
Temptation laughed lightly in Philip Poynter's eyes. The girl in the
caravan was winding away by dusty roads--out of his life perhaps. And
singular as the mission was, its aim was harmless.

"Our lady," said the Baron smoothly, "camps by night. From an aeroplane
one may see much--a camp--a curl of smoke--a caravan. Later one may walk
and, walking, one may lose his way--to find it again with perfect ease by
means of a forest camp fire."

Somehow on the Baron's tongue the escapade became insidious duplicity.
Philip flushed, acutely conscious of a significant stirring of his
conscience.

"I may fly with Sherrill this afternoon," he said with marked reluctance.

"And at sunset?"

"I may walk," said Philip, shrugging.

"Permit m