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Updated: July 31, 2024
Baron Tregar, baffling as he is at times, is not the man to lend himself to deliberate assassination merely to keep the succession of Ronador's son free from incumbrances.
Carl, though he had primarily intended the singular rig for the eyes of Tregar, had subtly invited the remark. His eyes were darkly ironic. "Prince," he said guilelessly, "it is a silent parable." "Yes?" "I am 'The Ghost of a Man's Past!" explained the Palmer lightly and clanked his chains. The level glances of the two met with the keenness of invisible swords.
Philip looked frankly astonished. "I take it then," he suggested, "that you know the nomadic lady, Baron Tregar?" "No," said the Baron. Philip stared. "Your Excellency is pleased to jest," he said politely. "On the contrary," said the Baron, "I am at a loss for suitable words in which to express my singular request. I am assured of your interest, Poynter?"
Old Poynter is a pirate, an unscrupulous, money-mad, villainous old pirate and he did something or other most unpleasant to Dad in Wall Street. And would you believe it, Susanne, Philip went fuming off huffily to some ridiculous little mountain kingdom in Europe that he was awfully keen about Houdania and rented himself out as a secretary to Baron Tregar. Just imagine!
"A nomadic young woman, I am told," shrugged the older man carelessly. He stood watching the dusty trail of the nomad with narrowed, thoughtful eyes, unaware that his companion's eyes had wandered somewhat expectantly to the Westfall lake. "Baron Tregar!" whispered Ann Sherrill in a remote corner of the veranda to a girl she had brought up to the farm with her late the night before.
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."
"No," said Diane honestly. "Why fuss now?" "Tregar must have suspected. I met his his spy in the forest and we quarreled wildly. He tried to kill me but the bullet went wild." Again his glance wavered but the lying words came smoothly. "My servant, Themar, leaped and stabbed him in the shoulder " "No! No!" cried Diane. "Not that not that!"
Had I loved him less had I loved her less that Indian wife who had no love in her heart for me, this hair of mine would not have turned snow-white when the Indians were fanning the flickering spark of life into a blaze again." "There is peace in your face," said Tregar a little bitterly, "and none of the old fretful discontent.
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.
"Yes," said Tregar sadly, "Themar was a traitor." "I told him much," said Ronador, great drops of moisture standing forth upon his forehead. "It seemed that I must, to make him understand the urgent need of silencing Granberry forever. He cabled the news to Galituria and sold it. I am ill and discouraged. There is fever in my blood, Tregar, from this climate of eternal summer a fever in my head "
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