a brilliant escort and one--er--other time.
Think I told you I'd spent a month or so in a Houdanian monastery
several years ago, didn't I, Dick?"

"Yes," said Dick. "That's why I asked. Poynter, who in blue blazes
are you looking for?"

Philip flushed.

"Dry up!" he advised. "You're grouchy."

Sherrill was still heatedly denying the charge when they halted near
the Baron.

"You wear a singular costume," suggested Ronador stiffly, when the
formalities of presentation were at an end. He glanced at the luminous
turban and thence to the chains. 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.

"The heavy, sinister black," suggested the Palmer, "the flashes of
forbidden scarlet--the hours of a man's past are scarlet, are they
not?--the cloud above the head, with a treacherous heart of fire, the
clanking chains of bondage--they are all here. And the skeleton in the
closet--Sire--behold!" He laughed and flung back his mantle, revealing
a perfect skeleton cunningly etched in glaring white upon a
close-fitting garment of black.

Did the Baron's eyes flash suddenly with a queer dry humor? Philip
could not be sure.

With a clank of symbolic chains Carl bowed and withdrew, and coming
suddenly upon his cousin, halted and stared. Long afterward Diane was
to remember that she had caught a similar look in the eyes of Ronador.

"Well?" she begged, slightly uncomfortable.

Carl smiled. Once more his fine eyes were impassive. With ready grace
he admired the delicately-thonged tunic and the beaded sash, the bright
turban with the beaten band of silver and the darkly lovely face
beneath it.

"It's a duplicate of the rig my little Indian friend wears," she
explained, smiling. "Hasn't Ann told you? She's quite wild about it."

"Ann's very busy soothing Dick," laughed Carl and to the malicious
satisfaction of that worthy Greek who had been trailing along in his
wake, presented Herodotus. Diane nodded, smiled politely--and sought
delicately to ignore the ancient Greek. It was a hopeless task. Mr.
Poynter insisted upon considering himself included in every word she
uttered.

"Isn't mother a