were two brothers of the mad
king, each of whom had a son. Theodomir, then, had been the son of the
elder, Ronador of the younger. Theodomir had fled at the death of his
father, unwilling to take up the regency under a mad king. So
Ronador's father had come to the regency of the kingdom and Ronador
himself and his little son had stood in the direct line of succession
until the ghost arose from the candlestick and mocked them all. And
she--Diane--was the child of Theodomir.

Diane was still dazedly sorting the pieces of the puzzle when the sun
set in a red glory beyond the lake, matching the flame of Philip's fire
by which he and the Baron sat in earnest discussion.

The west was faintly yellow, the forest dark, when from the tent to
which she had retired at noon, quite distraught and incoherent. Aunt
Agatha begged plaintively for a cup of tea.

"Diane," she said, when the girl herself appeared with it, "I--I can't
forget his face. I--I never shall. Twice now I've tried to get up,
but I thought of his eyes and the revolver, and my knees folded up.
It--it was just so this morning. What with the ringing in my ears--and
the dizziness--and his face so dark with anger--and digging my heels in
the ground to keep my knees from folding up under me--I--I thought I
should go quite mad, quite mad, my dear. He--he meant to kill Mr.
Poynter?"

"Yes," said Diane with a shudder. "Yes. I--think so."

"I'm sorry I told him where you were," fluttered Aunt Agatha, taking a
conscience-stricken and somewhat tearful gulp of very hot tea. "I--I
am indeed, but I couldn't in the least know that he went about killing
people, could I, Diane?"

"No," said Diane patiently. "No, of course not. Don't bother about
it. Aunt Agatha. Why not wait until your tea is a little cooler?"

"I'll have to," said Aunt Agatha with an aggrieved sniff. "For I do
believe I'm filled with steam now. Why are you so white and quiet,
Diane? Is it the revolver?"

"Aunt Agatha," exclaimed the girl impetuously, "why have you always
been so reticent about my mother?"

The effect of the girl's words was sufficient proof that the frightened
lady had absorbed but little of Philip's revelation. Tired and
nervous, hazily aware that the scene of the morning had been
portentous, and now confounding it in a panic with something that by a
deathbed pledge had lain inexorably buried in her heart for years, Aunt
Agatha screamed and dropped her teacup. It ro