Bending its Circean head, Temptation laughed lightly in Philip Poynter's eyes.

The girl in the caravan was winding away by dusty roads--out of his life perhaps.

And singular as the mission was, its aim was harmless.
"Our lady," said the Baron smoothly, "camps by night.

From an aeroplane one may see much--a camp--a curl of smoke--a caravan.

Later one may walk and, walking, one may lose his way--to find it again with perfect ease by means of a forest camp fire." Somehow on the Baron's tongue the escapade became insidious duplicity.
Philip flushed, acutely conscious of a significant stirring of his conscience.
"I may fly with Sherrill this afternoon," he said with marked reluctance.
"And at sunset ?" "I may walk," said Philip, shrugging.
"Permit me," said the Baron gratefully as he rose, "to thank you.