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With a groan of horror and suffering, he pitched forward upon the ground, breathing Philip Poynter's name like an invocation against the things of evil crowding horribly about him. It was Dick Sherrill who at last found him. "Nick!" he called in horror to one of the guides. "For God's sake bring some brandy! No! he's had too much of that already. Water! Water can't somebody hurry!"
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.
"Besides," he added absently, "I'm really the Duke of Connecticut in disguise, touring about for my health, and the therapeutic value of hay is enormous." Now why Diane's cheeks should blaze so hotly at this aristocratic claim of Mr. Poynter's, who may say?
If Philip hadn't wandered about in the garb of Herodotus and murmured that impertinence about 'frost in Florida' it wouldn't have been so bad. It's a very unfortunate thing, however, that he never seems to remember one's displeasure or the cause of it." But for one who rejoiced in Mr. Poynter's belated inheritance of common sense, Diane's comment a few days later was very singular.
Another advertisement was of a different character: 'For Gladys's sake, please write to me, or give me a chance of speaking to you. An unknown but most sincere friend, U. G. The third advertisement was still more pressing: 'Jack Poynter's friends believe him dead, and are in great trouble: he is entreated to undeceive them. One word to the old address will be a comfort to his poor sister.
From this custom of the church of Jerusalem probably arose that of the Roman church, in which a crucifix, containing a particle of the true cross, was publicly venerated on good Friday. Flecte genu, lignumque crucis venerabile adora, says Lactantius. See bishop Poynter's Christianity p. 151.
Didn't he tell you?" he asked as his aunt crossed the room in concern. Lady Poynter's jaw fell in affronted indignation. Lady Maitland had already secured Mr. Lane for luncheon, the Duchess of Ross had wired: "Don't know you but must. Have just seen your play. When will you dine?" and Mrs. Shelley had staked out a claim before any one else had heard of the man.
It seems to be having a great success, Mr. Lane." Eric smiled a little self-consciously; but her deliberate avoidance of enthusiasm chilled him after Lady Poynter's extravagant appreciation. "No one here seems to have escaped it," he said. "I kept thinking how clever of you it was to write it," she went on, half to herself.
Then he remembered the trick of the door he got it open he shut it behind him he gained his friend's room, and that is all we need know. It seems curious that, during all the time that had elapsed since the purchase of Poynter's diary, James Denton should not have sought an explanation of the presence of the pattern that had been pinned into it.
Convinced that Mr. Poynter's eyes were upon her from the hay-camp, Diane read the ode with absolute gravity and consigned it to the fire. The minstrel's attitude toward the hay-nomad might be one of subtle undermining and shrugging ridicule, but surely with his imperturbable gift of satire, Mr. Poynter held the cards! Still another morning Diane found a book at the edge of her camp.
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