"Woodn't that bark you!" shouted Langdon, furious. "Go on with the dolly dialogue or I'll punch your head, you third-rate best seller!" "But there was no dialogue, Curt. It began and ended in a duet of silence," he added sentimentally. "Didn't you say anything? Didn't you try to make a date? Aren't you going to see her again?" "I don't know. I am not sure what sweet occult telepathy might have passed between us, Curtis. . . . Somehow I believe that all is not yet ended. . . . . Pass the pork! . . . I like to think that somehow, some day, somewhere----" "Stop that! You're ending it the way women end short stories in the thirty-five-centers. What I want to know is, why you think that your encounter with this girl has anything to do with our finding Reginald Willett." There was a basin of warm water simmering on the ashes; Sayre used it as a finger-bowl, dried his hands on his shirt, lighted his pipe, and then slowly drew from his hip pocket a flat leather pocket-book. "Curt," he said, "I'm not selfish. I'm perfectly willing to share glory with you. You know that, don't you?" "Sure," muttered Langdon. "You're a bum cook, but otherwise moral enough." Sayre opened the pocket-book and produced a photograph. "Everybody who is searching for Willett," he said, "examined the few clues he left. Like hundreds of others, you and I, when we first entered these woods, went to his camp on Gilded Dome, prowled all over it, and examined the camera which had been picked up in the trail, didn't we?" "We did. It was a sad scene--his distracted old father----" "H'm! Did you see his distracted old father, Curt?" "I? No, of course not. Like everybody else, I respected the grief of that aged and stricken gentleman----" "_I_ didn't." "Hey? Why, you yellow dingo----" "Curt, as I was snooping about the Italian Garden I happened to glance up at the mansion--I mean the camp--and I saw by the window a rather jolly old buck with a waxed moustache and a monocle, smoking a good cigar and perusing his after-breakfast newspaper. A gardener told me that this tranquil old bird was Willett Senior, who had arrived the evening before from Europe via New York. So I went straight into that house and I disregarded the butler, second man, valet, and seven assorted servants; and Mr. Willett Senior heard the noise and came to the dining-room door. 'Well, what the devil's the matter?' he said. I said: 'I only want to ask you one question, sir. Why are you not in a state of terrible mental agitation over the tragic disappearance of your son?' "'Because,' he replied, coolly, 'I know my son, Reginald. If the newspapers and the public will let him alone he'll come back when he gets ready.' "'Are you not alarmed?' "'Not in the least.' "'Then why did you return from Europe and hasten up here?' "'Too many newspaper men hanging around.' He glanced insultingly at the silver.