"So," said he at last,--"it is for this that I have been--" he searched for an expressive Americanism, and shrugging, invented one, "thunder-cracking along the highway in search of the man Themar saw by the fire of Miss Westfall. 'It is incredible--it can not be!' said I, as I blistered about, searching here, searching there, losing my way and thunder-cracking about in dead of night--all to pick up the trail of a green and white van and a music-machine! 'It is unbelievable--it is a monstrous mistake on the part of Themar!' But, Poynter, this love making, in the circumstances, passes all belief!" The Baron added that twice within the week he had passed the hay-camp but that by some unlucky fatality he had always contrived to miss the music-machine. "Days back," rumbled the Baron thoughtfully, "I assigned to Themar the task of discovering the identity of the man who--er--acquired a certain roadster of mine and who, I felt fairly certain, would not lose track of Miss Westfall but Themar, Poynter, came to grief--" "Yes?" said Philip coolly. "You interest me exceedingly." "He made his way back to me after many weeks of illness," said the Baron slowly, "with a curious tale of a terrible thrashing, of a barge and mules, of rough men who kicked him about and consigned him to a city jail under the malicious charge of a mule-driver who swore that he loved not black-and-tans--" "Lord!" said Philip politely; "that was tough, wasn't it?" "Just what, Poynter," begged the Baron, "is a black-and-tan?" Mr. Poynter fancied he had heard the term before. It might have reference to the color of a man's skin and hair. An uncomfortable silence fell over the Baron's camp. The Baron himself was the first to break it. "Poynter," said he bluntly, "the circumstances of our separation at Sherrill's have engendered, with reason, a slight constraint. There was a night when you grievously misjudged me--" "I am willing," admitted Philip politely, "to hear why I should alter my views." "_Mon Dieu_, Poynter!" boomed the Baron in exasperation, "you are maddening. When you are politest, I fume and strike fire--here within!" "Mental arson!" shrugged the Duke of Connecticut, relighting his cigarette with a blazing twig. "For that singular crime. Excellency, my deepest apologies." The Baron stared, frowned, and laughed. One may know very little of one's secretary, after all. "You are a curious young man!" said he. The Duke of Connecticut admitted that this might be so. Hay, therapeutically, had effected an astonishing revolution in a nature disposed congenitally to peace and trustfulness. Local applications of hay had made him exceedingly suspicious and hostile. So much so indeed that for days now he had slept by day, to the total wreck of his aesthetic reputation, and watched by night, convinced that Miss Westfall's camp was prone to strange and dangerous visitors. Excellency no doubt remembered the knife and the bullet. The Baron sighed.