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Cynthia's Chauffeur

by Louis Tracy · English · Gutenberg #31472 · 494,537 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Cynthia's Chauffeur

Author: Louis Tracy

Illustrator: Howard Chandler Christy


        
Release date: March 2, 2010 [eBook #31472]

Language: English

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CYNTHIA'S CHAUFFEUR

by

LOUIS TRACY

Author of
The Wings of the Morning,
A Son of the Immortals, Etc., Etc.

Illustrations by Howard Chandler Christy







New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers

Copyright, 1910, by
Edward J. Clode
Entered at Stationers' Hall




[Illustration: "_There is no lovelier garden in England than at Wells
Palace._"]




CYNTHIA'S CHAUFFEUR

By LOUIS TRACY


The scene opens in London on Derby day. A lovely American girl and her
English chaperon had engaged a chauffeur to take them in his car on a
thousand miles run for ten days. On his way to keep the appointment
the car met with an accident, and a young Englishman, the son of an
earl, happened to be in the vicinity. The chauffeur had once been in
his employ, and when he saw his distress at the possible loss of a
good customer he thought it would be a fine lark to go himself, in the
guise of a chauffeur, and take the ladies on their journey.

The girl was beautiful and the pseudo chauffeur was young and
romantic, and one of the strangest of love stories began.




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                                          PAGE

    I. THE HIRED CAR                                1

   II. THE FIRST DAY'S RUN                         23

  III. SOME EMOTIONS--WITHOUT A MORAL              47

   IV. SHADOWS--WITH OCCASIONAL GLEAMS             72

    V. A FLURRY ON THE MENDIPS                     94

   VI. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S VAGARIES               119

  VII. WHEREIN CYNTHIA TAKES HER OWN LINE         143

 VIII. BREAKERS AHEAD                             167

   IX. ON THE WYE                                 191

    X. THE HIDDEN FOUNTS OF EVIL                  216

   XI. THE PARTING OF THE WAYS                    239

  XII. MASQUES, ANCIENT AND MODERN                260

 XIII. WHEREIN WRATH BEGUILES GOOD JUDGMENT       283

  XIV. --AND GOOD JUDGMENT YIELDS TO FOLLY        307

   XV. THE OUTCOME                                324

  XVI. THE END OF ONE TOUR: THE BEGINNING
       OF ANOTHER                                 344




CYNTHIA'S CHAUFFEUR




CHAPTER I

THE HIRED CAR


Derby Day fell that year on the first Wednesday in June. By a whim of
the British climate, the weather was fine; in fact, no rain had fallen
on southern England since the previous Sunday. Wise after the event,
the newspapers published cheerful "forecasts," and certain daring
"experts" discussed the probabilities of a heat wave. So London, on
that bright Wednesday morning, was agog with excitement over its
annual holiday; and at such a time London is the gayest and liveliest
city in the world.

And then, wholly independent of the weather, there was the Great
Question.

From the hour when the first 'bus rumbled Citywards until some few
seconds before three o'clock in the afternoon the mass of the people
seemed to find delight in asking and answering it. The Question was
ever the same; but the answer varied. In its way, the Question formed
a tribute to the advance of democracy. It caused strangers to
exchange opinions and pleasantries in crowded trains and omnibuses. It
placed peers and commoners on an equality. During some part of the day
it completely eclipsed all other topics of conversation.

Thus, young Lord Medenham made no pretense of shirking it while he
stood on the steps of his father's mansion in Cavendish Square and
watched his chauffeur stowing a luncheon basket beneath the front seat
of the Mercury 38.

"You know a bit about racing, Tomkinson," he said, smiling at the
elderly butler who had brought the basket out of the house. "What's
going to win?"

"The King's horse, my lord," replied Tomkinson, with the unctuous
conviction of a prelate laying down a dogma.

"Is it as sure as all that?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Well, I hope so. You are on a sovereign--By gad, you really are, you
know."

Tomkinson was far too keenly alive to the monetary side of the
transaction to pay heed to the quip. His portly figure curved in a
superb bow.

"Thank you, my lord," said he.

"Remind me this evening if you are right. I shall not forget to damn
you if you are wrong."

Tomkinson ignored the chance of error and its consequences.

"Your lordship will be home for dinner?"

"Yes, I have no other engagement. All ready, Dale?" for the chauffeur
was in his seat, and the engine was purring with the placid hum of a
machine in perfect tune.

Tomkinson moved grandly down the steps, ushered Viscount Medenham into
the car, and watched its graceful swoop into Holles Street.

"Times have changed," said he to himself. "Twenty years ago, when I
first came here, his lordship's father would have given _me_ a tip,
and he wouldn't have been coming home for dinner, neether."

By that last fatal word Tomkinson betrayed the cloven hoof. At least,
he was no prelate--and his assumption of the prophetic rôle would soon
be put to the test. But he had answered the Great Question.

The Mercury crossed Oxford Street and insinuated itself into the
aristocratic narrowness of Mayfair. It stopped in Curzon Street,
opposite a house gay with flowers in window-boxes. The Viscount looked
at his watch.

"How far to Epsom?" he asked over Dale's shoulder.

"About sixteen miles by the direct road, my lord, but it will be best
to go round by Kingston and avoid the worst of the traffic. We ought
to allow an hour for the run."

"An hour!"

"We are not in France now, my lord. The police here would have spasms
if they saw the car extended."

Lord Medenham sighed.

"We must reason with them," he said. "But not to-day. Lady St. Maur
declares she is nervous. Of course, she doesn't know our Mercury.
After to-day's experience it will be quite another matter when I take
her to Brighton for lunch on Sunday."

Dale said nothing. He had met his employer at Marseilles in October,
when Lord Medenham landed from Africa; during the preceding twelve
months his license had been indorsed three times for exceeding the
speed limit on the Brighton Road, and he had paid £40 in fines and
costs to various petty sessional courts in Surrey and Sussex. Sunday,
therefore, promised developments.

Medenham seemed to think that his aunt, Lady St. Maur, would be
waiting for him on the doorstep. As no matronly figure materialized in
that locality, he alighted, and obeyed a brass-lettered injunction to
"knock and ring." Then he disappeared inside the house, and remained
there so long that Dale's respect for the law began to weaken. The
chauffeur had been given a racing certainty for the first race; the
hour was nearing twelve, and every road leading to Epsom Downs would
surely be congested.

His lordship came out, alone, and it was clear that the unexpected had
happened.

"Nice thing!" he said, with the closest semblance to a growl that his
good-natured drawl was capable of. "The whole show is busted, Dale.
Her ladyship is in bed with her annual bilious attack--comes of eating
forced strawberries, she says. And she adores strawberries. So do I.
There's pounds of 'em in that luncheon basket. Who's going to eat
'em?"

Dale foresaw no difficulties in that respect, but he did realize at
once that his master cared little about racing, and, so far as Epsom
was concerned, would abandon the day's excursion without a pang. He
grew desperate. But, being something of a stoic, he kept his feelings
in check, and played a card that could hardly fail.

"You will find plenty of youngsters on the hill who will be glad of
them, my lord," said he.

"You don't tell me so! Kiddies at the Derby! Well, why not? It shows
what a stranger I am in my own land that I should never have seen the
blessed race. Right ahead then, Dale; we must back the King's horse
and arrange a school treat. But I'll take the wheel. Can you tuck your
legs over that basket? I'm not going to sit alone in the tonneau. And,
who knows?--we may pick up someone on the road."

Starting on the switch, the car sprang off towards Piccadilly. Dale
sighed in his relief. With ordinary luck, they ought to reach Epsom
before one o'clock, and racing did not begin till half an hour later.
He left wholly out of reckoning the mysterious element in human
affairs that allots adventures to the adventurous, though close
association with Viscount Medenham during the past nine months ought
to have taught him the wisdom of caution. Several chapters of a very
interesting book might be supplied by his lordship's motoring
experiences on the Continent, and these would only supplement the
still more checkered biography of one who, at the close of the Boer
War, elected to shoot his way home through the Mid-African haunts of
big game rather than return by orthodox troopship. On the face of
things, it was absurd to imagine that a self-confessed wanderer
should be permitted to see his first Derby in the sacrosanct company
of a stout aunt and a well-filled luncheon basket. Even Medenham's
recording angel must have smiled at the conceit, though doubtless
shaking a grave head when the announcement of the Dowager's
indisposition revealed the first twist from the path of good intent.
As for Lady St. Maur, she declared long afterwards that the whole
amazing entanglement could be traced distinctly to her fondness for
the ducal fruit raised under glass. A cherry-stone lodged in the
vermiform appendix of an emperor has more than once played strange
pranks with the map of Europe, so it is not surprising that a
strawberry, subtly bestowed in a place well adapted to the exercise of
its fell skill, should be able to convulse a section of the British
peerage.

Be that as it may, the hap that put Medenham in control of his Mercury
unquestionably led to the next turn in events. A man driving a
high-powered car watches the incidents of the road more closely than
the same individual lounging at ease in the back seat. Hence, his
lordship's attention was caught instantly by a touring car drawn up
close to the curb in Down Street. That short thoroughfare forms, as
it were, a backwash for the traffic of Piccadilly. At the moment it
held no other vehicle than the two automobiles, and it required no
second look at the face of the driver of the motionless car to
discover that something was seriously amiss. Anger and despair
struggled there for predominance. Richard the Third of England must
have given just such a glance at his last horse foundered on Bosworth
Field.

Medenham never passed another motorist in trouble without stopping.

"Anything the matter?" he asked, when the Mercury was halted with the
ease of a trained athlete poised in suspended motion.

"Everything!"

The chauffeur snapped out the word without turning. He was a man
devoid of faith, or hope, or charity.

"Can I help?"

"Can you h----l!" came the surly response.

Thereupon, many viscounts would have swept on into Piccadilly without
further parley--not so Medenham. He scrutinized the soldierly figure,
the half-averted face.

"You must be hard hit, Simmonds, before you would answer me in that
fashion," said he quietly.

Simmonds positively jumped when he heard his name. He wheeled round,
raised his cap, and broke into stuttering excuse.

"I beg your lordship's pardon--I hadn't the least notion----"

These two had not met since they discussed Boer trenches and British
generals during a momentary halt on the Tugela slope of Spion Kop.
Medenham remembered the fact, and forgave a good deal on account of
it.

"I have seen you look far less worried under a plunging fire from a
pom-pom," he said cheerily. "Now, what is it? Wires out of order?"

"No, my lord. That wouldn't bother me very long. It's a regular smash
this time--transmission shaft snapped."

"Why?"

"I was run into by a railway van, and forced against a street refuge."

"Well, if it was not your fault----"

"Oh, I can claim damages right enough. I have plenty of witnesses.
Even the driver of the van could only say that one of his horses
slipped. It's the delay I'm jibbing at. I hate to disappoint my
customers, and this accident may cost me three hundred pounds, and a
business of my own into the bargain."

"By gad! That sounds rather stiff. What's the hurry?"

"This is my own car, my lord. Early in the spring I was lucky enough
to fall in with a rich American. I was driving for a company then, but
he offered me three hundred pounds, money down, for a three months'
contract. Straightaway I bought this car for five hundred, and it is
half paid for. Now the same gentleman writes from Paris that I am to
take his daughter and another lady on a thousand miles' run for ten
days, and he says he is prepared to hire me and the car for the
balance of another period of three months on the same terms."

"But the ladies will be reasonable when you explain matters."

"Ladies are never reasonable, my lord--especially young ones. I have
met Miss Vanrenen only once, but she struck me as one who was very
much accustomed to having her own way. And she has planned this tour
to the last minute. Any other day I might have hired a car, and picked
up my own somewhere on the road, but on Derby Day and in fine
weather----"

Simmonds spread wide his hands in sheer inability to find words that
would express the hopelessness of retrieving his shattered fortunes.
Dale was fidgeting, fingering taps and screws unnecessarily, but
Medenham was pondering his former trooper's plight. He refused to
admit that the position was quite so bad as it was painted.

"Oh, come now," said he, "I'll give you a tow to the nearest repair
shop, and a word from me will expedite the business. Meanwhile, you
must jump into a hansom and appeal to the sympathies of
Miss--Vanrenen, is it?"

"No use, my lord," was the stubborn answer. "I am very much obliged
to you, but I would not dream of detaining you."

"Simmonds, you are positively cantankerous. I can spare the time."

"The first race is at 1.30, my lord," muttered Dale, greatly daring.

Medenham laughed.

"You, too?" he cried. "Someone has given you a tip, I suppose?"

Dale flushed under this direct analysis of his feelings. He grinned
sheepishly.

"I am told that Eyot can't lose the first race, my lord," he said.

"Ah! And how much do you mean to speculate?"

"A sovereign, my lord."

"Hand it over. I will lay you starting price."

Somewhat taken aback, though nothing said or done by Viscount Medenham
could really surprise him, Dale's leather garments creaked and groaned
while he produced the coin, which his master duly pocketed.

"Now, Simmonds," went on the pleasant, lazy voice, "you see how I have
comforted Dale by taking his money; won't you tell me what is the real
obstacle that blocks the way? Are you afraid to face this imperious
young lady?"

"No, my lord. No man can provide against an accident of this sort. But
Miss Vanrenen will lose all confidence in me. The arrangement was that
to-day's spin should be a short one--to Brighton. I was to take the
ladies to Epsom in time for the Derby, and then we were to run quietly
to the Metropole. Miss Vanrenen made such a point of seeing the race
that she will be horribly disappointed. There is an American horse
entered----"

"By gad, another gambler!"

Simmonds laughed grimly.

"I don't think Miss Vanrenen knows much about racing, my lord, but the
owner of Grimalkin is a friend of her father's, and he is confident
about winning this year."

"I am beginning to understand. You are in a fix of sorts, Simmonds."

"Yes, my lord."

"And what is your plan? I suppose you have one."

"I have sent for a boy messenger, my lord. When he arrives I shall
write--Oh, here he is."

Viscount Medenham descended leisurely and lit a cigarette. Dale, the
stoic, folded his arms and looked fixedly at the press of vehicles
passing the end of the street. Vivid memories of Lord Medenham's
chivalrous courtesy--his lordship's dashed tomfoolery he called
it--warned him that life was about to assume new interests.

The boy messenger, summoned telephonically by a sympathetic
maid-servant in a neighboring house, guessed that the gentleman
standing on the pavement owned the "motor-car" to which he had been
directed. Here were two cars, but the boy did not hesitate. He
saluted.

"Messenger, sir," he said.

"This way," intervened Simmonds curtly.

"No. I want you," said Medenham. "You know Sevastopolo's, the
cigarette shop in Bond Street?"

"Yes, sir."

"Take this card there, and ask him to dispatch the order at once."
Meanwhile he was writing: "Kindly send 1,000 Salonikas to 91 Cavendish
Square."

Simmonds looked anxious. He was not a smooth-spoken fellow, but he did
not wish to offend Lord Medenham.

"Would your lordship mind if I sent the boy to the Savoy Hotel first?"
he asked nervously. "It is rather late, and Miss Vanrenen will be
expecting me."

"What time are you due at the Savoy?"

"We were to start at twelve o'clock, but the ladies' luggage had to be
strapped on, and----"

"Ah, the deuce! That sounds formidable."

"Of course they must stow everything into the canvas trunks I
supplied, my lord."

Medenham stooped and examined the screws which fastened an iron grid
at the back of the broken-down vehicle.

"Whip open the tool box, Dale, and transfer that arrangement to my
car," he said briskly. "Make it fit somehow. I don't approve of
damaged paintwork, nor of weight behind the driving-wheels for that
matter, but time presses, and the ladies might shy at a request to
repack their belongings into my kit-bags, even if I were carrying
them. Now, Simmonds, give me the route, if you know it, and hand over
your road maps. I mean to take your place until your car is put right.
Wire me where to expect you. You ought to be ship-shape in three days,
at the utmost."

"My lord----" began the overwhelmed Simmonds.

"I'll see you hanged as high as Haman before I hand over my Mercury to
you, if that is what you are thinking of," said Medenham sharply.
"Why, man, she is built like a watch. It would take you a month to
understand her. Now, you boy, be off to Sevastopolo's. Where can I buy
a chauffeur's kit, Simmonds?"

"Your lordship is really too kind. I couldn't think of permitting it,"
muttered Simmonds.

"What, then--do you refuse my assistance?"

"It isn't that, my lord. I am awfully grateful----"

"Are you afraid that I shall run off with Miss Vanrenen--hold her to
ransom--send Black Hand letters to her father, and that sort of
thing?"

"From what little I have seen of Miss Vanrenen she is much more likely
to run off with you, my lord. But----"

"You're growing incoherent, Simmonds. For goodness' sake tell me
where I am to go. You can safely leave all the rest to me, and we
haven't a minute to lose if I am to secure any sort of a decent
motoring kit before I turn up at the hotel. Pull yourself together,
man. Action front and fire! Guns unlimbered and first range-finder
dispatched in nineteen seconds--eh, what?"

Simmonds squared his shoulders. He had been a driver in the Royal
Artillery before he joined Viscount Medenham's troop of Imperial
Yeomanry. There was no further argument. Dale, Oriental in phlegm now
that Eyot was safely backed, was already unscrewing the luggage
carrier.

Half an hour later, the Mercury curled with sinuous grace out of the
busy Strand into the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel. The inclosure
snorted with motors, the air was _petrolisé_, all the world of the
hotel was going, or had already gone, to Epsom.

One quick glance at the lines of traffic showed Medenham that
the Swiss Rear-Admiral on duty would not allow him to remain an
unnecessary instant in front of the actual doorway. He swung his car
to the exit side, crept in behind a departing taxicab, and grabbed a
hurrying boy in buttons.

"You listen to me, boy," he said.

The boy remarked that his hearing was perfect.

"Well, go to Miss Vanrenen and say that her motor is waiting. Seize a
porter, and do not leave him until he has brought two canvas trunks
from the lady's rooms. Help him to strap them on the grid, and I'll
give each of you half-a-crown."

The boy vanished. Never before had a chauffeur addressed him so
convincingly.

Medenham, standing by the side of the car, was deep in the contours
of a road map of Sussex when a sweet if somewhat petulant voice,
apparently at his elbow, complained that its owner could not see
Simmonds anywhere. He turned instantly. A slim, straight-figured girl,
wearing a dust-cloak and motor veil, had come out from the Savoy Court
doorway and was scrutinizing every automobile in sight. Near her was a
short, stout woman whose personality seemed to be strangely familiar
to Medenham. He never forgot anyone, and this lady was certainly not
one of his acquaintances; nevertheless, her features, her robin-like
strut, her very amplitude of girth and singular rotundity of form,
came definitely within the net of his retentive memory.

To be sure, he gave her but brief survey, since her companion, in
all likelihood Miss Vanrenen, might quite reasonably attract his
attention. Indeed, she would find favor in the eyes of any young man,
let alone one who had such cause as Viscount Medenham to be interested
in her appearance. In her amazingly lovely face the haughty beauty of
an aristocrat was softened by a touch of that piquant femininity which
the well-bred American girl seems to bring from Paris with her
clothes. A mass of dark brown hair framed a forehead, nose, and mouth
of almost Grecian regularity, while her firmly modeled chin, slightly
more pronounced in type, would hint at unusual strength of character
were not the impression instantly dispelled by the changing lights in
a pair of marvelously blue eyes. In the course of a single second
Medenham found himself comparing them to blue diamonds, to the azure
depths of a sunlit sea, to the exquisite tint of the myosotis. Then he
swallowed his surprise, and lifted his cap.

"May I ask if you are Miss Vanrenen?" he said.

The blue eyes met his. For the first time in his life he was thrilled
to the core by a woman's glance.

"Yes."

She answered with a smile, an approving smile, perhaps, for the
viscount looked very smart in his tight-fitting uniform, but none the
less wondering.

"Then I am here instead of Simmonds. His car was put out of commission
an hour ago by a brutal railway van, and will not be ready for the
road during the next day or two. May I offer my services in the
meantime?"

The girl's astonished gaze traveled from Medenham to the spick and
span automobile. For the moment he had forgotten his rôle, and each
word he uttered deepened her bewilderment, which grew stronger when
she looked at the Mercury. The sleek coachwork and spotless leather
upholstery, the shining brass fittings and glistening wings, every
visible detail in fact, gave good promise of the excellence of the
engine stowed away beneath the square bonnet. Evidently Miss Vanrenen
had cultivated the habit of gathering information rapidly.

"_This_ car?" she exclaimed, with a delightful lifting of arched
eyebrows.

"Yes, you will not be disappointed in it, I assure you. I am doing
Simmonds a friendly turn in taking his place, so I hope the slight
accident will not make any difference to your plans."

"But--why has not Simmonds himself come to explain matters?"

"He could not leave his car, which is in a side street off Piccadilly.
He would have sent a note, but he remembered that you had never seen
his handwriting, so, as a proof of my genuineness, he gave me your
itinerary."

Medenham produced a closely-written sheet of note-paper, which Miss
Vanrenen presumably recognized. She turned to her stout companion, who
had been summing up car and chauffeur with careful eyes since Medenham
first spoke.

"What do _you_ think, Mrs. Devar?" she said.

When he heard the name, Medenham was so amazed that the last vestige
of chauffeurism vanished from his manner.

"You don't mean to say you are Jimmy Devar's mother?" he gasped.

Mrs. Devar positively jumped. If a look could have slain he would have
fallen then and there. As it was, she tried to freeze him to death.

"Do I understand that you are speaking of Captain Devar, of Horton's
Horse?" she said, aloof as an iceberg.

"Yes," said he coolly, though regretting the lapse. He had stupidly
brought about an awkward incident, and must remember in future not to
address either lady as an equal.

"I was not aware that my son was on familiar terms with the chauffeur
fraternity."

"Sorry, but the name slipped out unawares. Captain Devar is, or used
to be, very easy-going in his ways, you know."

"So it would seem." She turned her back on him disdainfully. "In the
circumstances, Cynthia," she said, "I am inclined to believe that we
ought to make further inquiries before we exchange cars, and drivers,
in this fashion."

"But what is to be done? All our arrangements are made--our rooms
ordered--I have even sent father each day's address. If we cancel
everything by telegraph he will be alarmed."

"Oh, I did not mean that," protested the lady hurriedly. It was
evident that she hardly knew what to say. Medenham's wholly unexpected
query had unnerved her.

"Is there any alternative?" demanded Cynthia ruefully, glancing from
one to the other.

"It is rather late to hire another car to-day, I admit----" began Mrs.
Devar.

"It would be quite impossible, madam," put in Medenham. "This is Derby
Day, and there is not a motor to be obtained in London except a
taxicab. It was sheer good luck for Simmonds that he was able to
secure me as his deputy."

He thanked his stars for that word "madam." Certainly the mere sound
of it seemed to soothe Mrs. Devar's jarred nerves, and the appearance
of the Mercury was even more reassuring.

"Ah, well," she said, "we are not traveling into the wilds. If
desirable, we can always return to town by train. By the way,
chauffeur, what is your name?"

For an instant Medenham hesitated. Then he took the plunge, strong
in the belief that a half-forgotten transaction between himself and
"Jimmy" Devar would prevent that impecunious warrior from discussing
him freely in the family circle.

"George Augustus Fitzroy," he said.

Mrs. Devar's brows knitted; she was regaining her self-possession, and
a sarcastic smile now chased away a perplexing thought. She was about
to say something when Cynthia Vanrenen broke in excitedly:

"I declare to goodness if the hotel people have not fastened on
our boxes already. They seem to know our minds better than we do
ourselves. And here is the man with the wraps.... Please be careful
with that camera.... Yes, put it there, with the glasses. What are you
doing, Fitzroy?" for Medenham was discharging his obligations to the
boy in buttons and a porter.

"Paying my debts," said he, smiling at her.

"Of course you realize that I pay all expenses?" she said, with just
the requisite note of hauteur in her voice that the situation called
for.

"This is entirely a personal matter, I assure you, Miss Vanrenen."

Medenham could not help smiling; he stooped and felt a tire
unnecessarily. Cynthia was puzzled. She wrote that evening to Irma
Norris, her cousin in Philadelphia--"Fitzroy is a new line in
chauffeurs."

"By the way, where is your trunk?" she demanded suddenly.

"I came away unexpectedly, so I have arranged that it shall be sent to
Brighton by rail," he explained.

Apparently, there was nothing more to be said. The two ladies seated
themselves, and the car sped out into the Strand. They watched the
driver's adroit yet scrupulously careful dealing with the traffic, and
Cynthia, at least, quickly grasped the essential fact that the six
cylinders worked with a silent power that held cheap every other
vehicle passed or overtaken on the road.

"It is a lovely automobile," she murmured with a little sigh of
satisfaction.

"Quite an up-to-date car, I fancy," agreed her friend.

"I don't understand how this man, Fitzroy, can afford to use it for
hiring purposes. Yet, that is his affair--not mine. I rather like him.
Don't you?"

"His manners are somewhat off-hand, but such persons are given to
aping their superiors. George Augustus Fitzroy, too--it is ridiculous.
Fitzroy is the family name of the Earls of Fairholme, and their eldest
sons have been christened George Augustus ever since the beginning of
the eighteenth century."

"The name seems to fit our chauffeur all right, and I guess he has as
good a claim to it as any other man."

Cynthia was apt to flaunt the Stars and Stripes when Mrs. Devar aired
her class conventions, and the older woman had the tact to agree with
a careless nod. Nevertheless, had Cynthia Vanrenen known how strictly
accurate was her comment she would have been the most astounded girl
in London at that minute. The Viscountcy, of course, was nothing more
than a courtesy title; in the cold eye of the law, Medenham's full
legal name was that which Mrs. Devar deemed ridiculous. As events
shaped themselves, it was of the utmost importance to Cynthia, and
to Medenham, and to several other persons who had not yet risen
above their common horizon, that Mrs. Devar's sneer should pass
unchallenged. Though that lady herself was not fashioned of the softer
human clay which expresses its strenuous emotions by fainting fits or
hysteria, some such feminine expedient would certainly have prevented
her from going another hundred yards along the south road had some
wizard told her how nearly she had guessed the truth.

But the luck of the born adventurer saved Medenham from premature
exposure. "I dare all" was the motto of his house, and it was fated
to be tested in full measure ere he saw London again. Of these
considerations the purring Mercury neither knew nor cared. She sang
the song of the free highway, and sped through the leafy lanes of
Surrey with a fine disregard for Acts of Parliament and the "rules
and regulations therein made and provided." Soon after one o'clock,
however, she was compelled to climb the road to the downs in meek
agreement with two lines of toiling chars-à-bancs and laboring motors.
Just to show her mettle when the opportunity offered, she took the
steep hill opposite the stands with a greyhound rush that vastly
disconcerted a policeman who told Medenham to "hurry up out of the
dip."

Then, having found a clear space, she dozed for a while, and Cynthia,
like a true-born American, began the day's business by giving the
answer before either of her companions even thought of putting the
Great Question.

"Grimalkin will win!" she cried. "Mr. Deane told my father so. I want
to play Grimalkin for ten dollars!"




CHAPTER II

THE FIRST DAY'S RUN


Though Medenham was no turf devotee, he formed distinctly unfavorable
conclusions as to the financial stability of the bawling bookmakers
near at hand.

"If you wish to do any betting, Miss Vanrenen," he said, "give me the
money and I will invest it for you. There is no hurry. The Derby will
not be run till three o'clock. We have an hour and a half in which to
study form."

For the life of him he could not imitate the complete annihilation of
self practiced by the well-bred English servant. The American girl
missed the absence of this trait far less than the other woman, but,
by this time, even Mrs. Devar began to accept Medenham's good-humored
assumption of equality as part of the day's amusement.

Cynthia handed him a card. She had bought three while they were
crawling up the hill behind a break-load of jeering Cockneys.

"What will win the first race?" she asked. "Father says you men often
hear more than the owners about the real performances of horses."

Medenham tried to look knowing. He thanked his stars for Dale's
information.

"I am told Eyot has a chance," he said.

"Well, put me a sovereign on Eyot, please. Are _you_ playing the
ponies, Mrs. Devar?"

That lady, being quick-witted, took care not to offend Cynthia by
pretending not to understand, though it set Medenham's teeth on edge
to hear a racehorse called a pony. She opened a gold purse and
produced a coin.

"I don't mind risking a little," she tittered.

Medenham found, however, that she also had handed him a sovereign, and
his conscience smote him, for he guessed already, with accuracy as it
happened, that she was Miss Vanrenen's paid chaperon during the
absence of the girl's father on the Continent.

"Personally, I am a duffer in matters connected with the turf," he
explained. "A friend of mine--a chauffeur--mentioned Eyot----"

"Oh, that is all right," laughed Cynthia. "I like the color--Eau de
Nil and white. Look! There he goes!"

She had good eyes, as well as pretty ones, else she could not have
distinguished the silk jacket worn by the rider of a horse cantering
at that moment along the cleared course. Crowded coaches, four rows
deep, lined the rails near the judge's box, and the gay-hued parasols
of their feminine occupants almost completely blocked the view, a
distant one in any case, owing to the width of the intervening
valley.

Medenham raised no further protest. He walked to a stand where a press
of people betokened the presence of a popular layer of odds, found
that Eyot's price was chalked up at five to one, and backed him for
four pounds. He had to push and elbow his way through a struggling
crowd; immediately after the bet was made, Eyot's quotation was
reduced by two points in response to signals tick-tacked from the
inclosures. This, of course, argued a decided following for Dale's
selection, and these eleventh hour movements in the turf market are
illuminative. Before he got back to the car there was a mighty shout
of "They're off!" and he saw Cynthia Vanrenen stand on the seat to
watch the race through her glasses.

Mrs. Devar stood up, too. Both women were so intent on the troop of
horses now streaming over the crest of the six-furlong course that he
was able to stare his fill without attracting their attention.

"I like Cynthia," he said to himself, "though I shall be in a deuce of
a mess if I meet her anywhere after this piece of masquerading. Not
much chance of that, I expect, seeing that Dad and I go to Scotland
early in July. But what a bore to tumble across Jimmy's mater! I hope
it is not a case of 'like mother like son,' because Jimmy is the
limit."

A strange roar, gathering force and volume each instant, rose from a
hundred thousand throats. Soon the shout became insistent, and Cynthia
Vanrenen yielded to its magnetism.

"Eyot wins!" she cried delightedly. "Yes, none of them can catch him
now. Go on, jockey--don't look round! Oh, if I were your master I'd
give you such a talking to. Ah-h-h! We've won, Mrs. Devar--we've won!
Just think of it!"

"How much, I wonder?" Mrs. Devar, though excited, had the calculating
habit.

"Five pounds each," said Medenham, who had approached unnoticed during
the tumult.

Cynthia's eyes sparkled.

"Five pounds! Why, I heard some betting person over there offering
only three to one."

It was a task beyond his powers to curb an unruly tongue in the
presence of this emancipated schoolgirl. He met her ebullient mood
halfway.

"I have evidently beaten the market--that is, if I get the money.
Horrible thought! I may be welshed!"

He strode back rapidly to the bookmaker's stand.

"What do you think of our chauffeur now?" cried Cynthia radiantly, for
the winning of those few sovereigns was a real joy to her, and the
shadow of the welsher had no terrors, since she did not know what
Medenham meant.

"He improves on acquaintance," admitted Mrs. Devar, thawing a little
under the influence of a successful tip.

He soon returned, and handed them six sovereigns apiece.

"My man paid up like a Briton," he said cheerfully. "I have no
reliable information as to the next race, so what do you ladies say
if we lunch quietly before we attack the ring for the Derby?"

There was an awkward pause. The air of Epsom Downs is stimulating,
especially after one has found the winner of the first race.

"We have not brought anything to eat," admitted Cynthia ruefully. "We
ordered some sandwiches before leaving the hotel, and we mean to stop
for tea at some old-world hotel in Reigate which Mrs. Devar
recommends."

"Unfortunately I was not hungry at sandwich time," sighed Mrs. Devar.

"If it comes to that, neither was I, whereas I have a most unromantic
appetite now. But what can do, as the Babus say in India. I am rather
inclined to doubt the quality of anything we can buy here."

Medenham's face lit up.

"India!" he cried. "Have you been to India?"

"Yes, have you? My father and I passed last cold weather there."

Warned by a sudden expansion of Mrs. Devar's prominent eyes, he gave a
quick turn to a dangerous topic, since it was in Calcutta that the
gallant ex-captain of Horton's Horse had "borrowed" fifty pounds from
him. Naturally, the lady omitted the telltale prefix to her son's
rank, but it was unquestionably true that the British army had
dispensed with his services.

"I was only thinking that acquaintance with the East, Miss Vanrenen,
would prepare you for the mysterious workings of Kismet," said
Medenham lightly. "When I came across Simmonds this morning I was
bewailing the fact that my respected aunt had fallen ill and could not
accompany me to-day. May I offer you the luncheon which I provided for
her?"

He withdrew the wicker basket from its nook beneath the front seat;
before his astonished guests could utter a protest, it was opened, and
he was deftly unpacking the contents.

"But that is _your_ luncheon," protested Cynthia, finding it incumbent
on her to say something by way of polite refusal.

"And his aunt's, my dear."

In those few words Mrs. Devar conveyed skepticism as to the aunt and
ready acceptance of the proffered fare; but Medenham paid no heed; he
had discovered that the napkins, cutlery, even the plates, bore the
family crest. The silver, too, was of a quality that could not fail to
evoke comment.

"Well, here goes!" he growled under his breath. "If I come a purler it
will not be for the first time where women are concerned."

He laughed as he produced some lobster in aspic and a chicken.

"It is jolly useful to have as a friend a butler in a big house," he
said. "I didn't know what Tomkinson had given me, but these
confections look all right."

Mrs. Devar's glance dwelt on the crest the instant she took a plate.
She smiled in her superior way. While Medenham was wrestling with the
cork of a bottle of claret she whispered:

"This is screamingly funny, Cynthia. I have solved the riddle at last.
Our chauffeur is using his master's car and his master's eatables as
well."

"Don't care a cent," said Cynthia, who found the lobster admirable.

"But if any inquiry is made and our names are mixed up in it, Mr.
Vanrenen may be angry."

"Father would be tickled to death. I shall insist on paying for
everything, of course, and my responsibility ends there. No, thank
you--" this to Medenham who was offering her a glass of wine. "I drink
water only. Have you any?"

Mrs. Devar took the wine, and Medenham fished in the basket for the
St. Galmier, since Lady St. Maur cultivated gout with her biliousness.

"Dear me!" she murmured after a sip.

"What is it now?" asked Cynthia.

"Perfect, my dear. Such a bouquet! I wonder what house it came from,"
and she pondered the crest again, but in vain, for heraldry is an
exact science, and the greater part of her education had been given by
a hard world. She did not fail, therefore, to notice that three
persons were catered for by the packer of the basket. An unknown upper
housemaid was already suspect, and now she added mentally "some
shop-girl friend." The climax was reached when Medenham staged the
strawberries. Cynthia, to whom the good things of the table were
commonplaces, ate them and was thankful, but Mrs. Devar made another
note: "Ten shillings a basket, at the very least; and _three
baskets_!"

A deep, booming yell from the mob proclaimed that the second race was
in progress.

"I can't see a thing unless I am perched on the seat, and if I stand
up I shall upset the crockery," announced Cynthia. "But I am not
interested yet awhile. If Grimalkin wins I shall shout myself hoarse."

"He hasn't a ghost of a chance," said Medenham.

"Oh, but he has. Mr. Deane told my father----"

"But Tomkinson told me," he interrupted.

"Tomkinson. Is that your butler friend?"

"Yes. He says the King's horse will win."

"Surely the owner of Grimalkin must know more about the race than a
butler?"

"You would not think so, Miss Vanrenen, if you knew Tomkinson."

"Where is he butler?" asked Mrs. Devar suavely.

"I forget for the moment, madam," replied Medenham with equal suavity.

The lady waived the retort. She was sure of her ground now.

"In any case, I imagine that both Mr. Deane and this Tomkinson may be
mistaken. I am told that a horse trained locally has a splendid
chance--let me see--yes, here it is: the Honorable Charles Fenton's
Vendetta."

It was well that those bulging steel-gray eyes were bent over the
card, or they could not have failed to catch the flicker of amazement
that swept across Medenham's sun-browned face when he heard the name
of his cousin. He had not been in England a full week as yet, and he
happened not to have read a list of probable starters for the Derby.
He had glanced at the programme during breakfast that morning, but
some remark made by the Earl caused him to lay down the newspaper,
and, when next he picked it up, he became interested in an article on
the Cape to Cairo railway, written by someone who had not the remotest
notion of the difficulties to be surmounted before that very desirable
line can be constructed.

Cynthia, however, was watching him, and she laughed gleefully.

"Ah, Fitzroy, you hadn't heard of Vendetta before," she cried.
"Confess now--your faith in Tomkinson is shaken."

"Vendetta certainly does sound like war to the knife," said he.

"It is twenty to one," purred Mrs. Devar complacently. "I shall risk
the five pounds I won on the first race, and it will be very nice if I
receive a hundred."

"I stick to Old Glory," announced the valiant Cynthia.

"The King for me," declared Medenham, though he realized, without any
knowledge of the merits of the horses engaged, that the Honorable
Charles was not the sort of man to run a three-year-old in the Derby
merely for the sake of seeing his racing colors flashing in the sun.

Mrs. Devar kept to her word, and handed over the five pounds. Cynthia
staked seven, the five she had won and the ten dollars of her original
intent: whereupon Medenham said that he must cross the course and make
these bets in the ring--would the ladies raise any objection to his
absence, as he could not return until after the race? No, they were
quite content to remain in the car, so he repacked the luncheon basket
and left them.

Vendetta won by three lengths.

Medenham had secured twenty-five to one, and the bookmaker who paid
him added the genial advice: "Put that little lot where the flies
can't get at it." The man could afford to be affable, seeing that
the bet was the only one in his book against the horse's name. The
King's horse and Grimalkin were the public favorites, but both were
hopelessly shut in at Tattenham Corner, and neither showed in the
front rank at any stage of a fast run race. When Medenham climbed the
hill again, hot and uncomfortable in his leather clothing, Mrs. Devar
actually welcomed him with an expansive smile.

"What odds did you get me?" she cried, as soon as he was within
earshot.

"A hundred and twenty-five pounds to five, madam," he said.

"Oh, what luck! You must keep the odd five pounds, Fitzroy."

"No, thank you. I hedged on Vendetta, so I am still winning."

"But really, I insist."

He handed her a bundle of notes.

"You will find a hundred and thirty pounds there," he said, and
she understood that his refusal to accept her money was final. She
was intensely surprised that he had given her so much more than
she expected, and the first unworthy thought was succeeded by a
second--how dared this impudent chauffeur decline her bounty?

Cynthia pouted at him.

"Your Tomkinson is a fraud," she said.

"Your Grimalkin was well named," said he.

"That remark is very cutting, I suppose, Fitzroy."

"Oh, no. I merely meant to convey that a cat is not a racehorse."

"Poor fellow," mused Cynthia, "he is vexed because he lost. I must
make it up to him somehow, but he is such an extraordinary person, I
hardly dare suggest such a thing."

She began to adjust her veil and dust coat.

"If you are ready, Mrs. Devar," she said, "I think we ought to hit the
pike for Brighton."

Mrs. Devar laughed. Fitzroy evidently understood, as he had taken his
seat and the engine was humming.

"Americanisms are most fascinating," she vowed. "I wish you would use
more of them, Cynthia. I love them."

Cynthia was slightly ruffled, though if pressed for a reason she could
hardly have given one.

"Slang is useful occasionally, but I am trying to cure myself of the
habit," she said tartly.

"A picturesque phrase is always pardonable. Oh, is this quite
safe?----"

The Mercury, finding an opening, had shot down the hill with a smooth
celerity that alarmed the older woman. Cynthia leaned back composedly.

"Fitzroy means to reach the road before the police stop the traffic
for the next race," she said. Then, after a pause, she added: "I wish
we could keep this car for the rest of our tour, yet I suppose I ought
not to interfere in the arrangement father made with Simmonds."

Mrs. Devar frowned. Her momentary tremor had fled, and she had every
cause to regard with uneasiness the threatened substitution during the
forthcoming ten days, of this quite impossible Fitzroy for that very
chauffeur-like person, Simmonds. Her acquaintance with Peter Vanrenen
and his daughter was sufficiently intimate to warn her that Cynthia's
least desire was granted by her indulgent parent; in fact, Cynthia
would have been hopelessly spoilt were it not for a combination of
those happy chances which seem to conspire at times in the creation of
the American girl at her best. She was devoted to her father, her
nature was bright and cheerful, and she had a heart that bubbled over
with kindliness. Mrs. Devar chose the right line of attack. She
resolved to appeal to the girl's sympathies.

"I am afraid it would be a rather cruel thing to deprive Simmonds of
his engagement," she said softly. "He has bought a car, I understand,
on the strength of the contract with Mr. Vanrenen----"

"That doesn't cut any ice--I mean there would be no ill effect for
Simmonds," explained Cynthia hurriedly. "Father will meet us in London
at the end of our run, and Simmonds could come to us then."

The steel-gray eyes narrowed. Their owner was compelled to decide
quickly. As opposition was useless, she laughed, with the careless
ease of one who was in no way concerned.

"Don't you think," she said, "that if your father sees this car
Simmonds will be dispensed with somehow?"

Cynthia nodded. The argument was unanswerable.

They were crossing the course at a walking pace; at that point a sort
of passage was kept clear by the police for the convenience of those
occupants of the stands who wished to visit the paddock. The owner
of Vendetta, having been congratulated by royalty, was taking some
friends to admire the horse during the rubbing-down process, when his
glance suddenly fell on Medenham. Though amazed, he was not rendered
speechless.

"Well, I'm----" he began.

But the Mercury possessed a singularly loud and clear motor-horn, and
the voice of the Honorable Charles was drowned. Still, his gestures
were eloquent. Quite obviously, he was saying to a man whose arm he
caught:

"Did you ever in your life see anybody more like George than that
chauffeur? Why, damme, it is Medenham!"

So Mrs. Devar lost a golden opportunity. She knew Fenton by sight, and
her shrewd wits must have set her on the right track had she witnessed
his bewilderment. Being a pretentious person, however, and not able to
afford the up-keep of a motor, she was enjoying the surprise of two
well-dressed women who recognized her. Then the car leaped forward
again, and she scored a dearly won triumph.

At this crisis Medenham's scrutiny of the road map provided by
Simmonds for the tour was well repaid. He turned sharp to the right
past the back of the stands, and was fortunate in finding enough clear
road to render pursuit by his elderly cousin a vain thing, even if it
were thought of. The Mercury had to cross the caravan zone carefully,
but once Tattenham Corner was reached the way lay open to Reigate.

Through a land of gorse and heather they sped until they came to the
famous hill. They ran down in a noiseless flight that caused Cynthia
to experience the sensation of being borne on wings.

"I imagine that aeroplaning is something like this," she confided to
her companion.

"If it is, it must be enjoyable. I don't suppose, at my time of
life, I shall ever try to navigate the air in one of those frail
contrivances pictured in the newspapers. But I was nearly tempted to
go up in a balloon two years ago."

Cynthia stole a glance at Mrs. Devar's rotund figure, and laughed. She
could not help it, though she flushed furiously at what she deemed an
involuntary rudeness on her part.

"Oh, it sounds funny, I have no doubt," said the other, placidly
good-tempered, "but I really meant it at the moment. You have met
Count Edouard Marigny, I fancy?"

"Yes, in Paris last month. In fact----"

Cynthia hesitated. She had scarcely recovered from the excitement of
the racing and was not choosing her words quite happily. Mrs. Devar,
still sugary, ended the sentence.

"In fact, it was he who recommended me to Mr. Vanrenen as your
chaperon. Yes, my dear, Monsieur Marigny and I are old friends. He and
my son are inseparable when Captain Devar is in Paris. Well, as I was
saying, the Count offered to take me up in his balloon, L'Etoile, and
I was ready to go, but the weather became stormy and an ascent from
the Velo was impossible, or highly dangerous, at any rate."

Mrs. Devar cultivated the high-pitched voice that she regarded as
the hall-mark of good breeding, and, in that silent rush downhill,
Medenham could not avoid hearing each syllable. It was eminently
pleasing to listen to Cynthia's praise of his car, and he was wroth
with the other woman for wrenching the girl's thoughts away so
promptly from a topic dear to his heart. Therein he erred, for the
gods were being kind to him. Little recking how valuable was the
information he had just been given, he slackened speed somewhat, and
leaned back in the seat.

"We are nearing Reigate now," he remarked with half-turned head. "The
town begins on the other side of that tunnel. Which inn do you wish to
stop at for tea?"

"It seems to me that I have barely ended lunch," said Cynthia. "Shall
we cut out your old-world Reigate inn, Mrs. Devar, and take tea at
Crawley or Handcross?"

"By all means. How well you know the names of the towns and villages.
Yet you have never before visited this part of England."

"We Americans are nothing if not thorough," answered the girl. "I
would not be happy if I failed to look up our route on the map. More
than that, I note the name of each river we cross and try to identify
every range of hills. You must test me and count my mistakes."

Mrs. Devar spread her hands in a gesture copied from her French
acquaintances.

"My dear, I am the most ignorant person geographically. I remember how
that delightful Count Edouard laughed when I asked him if the Loire
joined the Seine above or below Paris. It seems that I was thinking of
the Oise all the time. The Marchioness of Belfort told me of my error
afterwards."

Cynthia laughed merrily, but made no reply.

Medenham bent over the levers and the car danced on through Reigate.
Mrs. Devar impressed him as a despicable type of tuft-hunter. His
acquaintance with the species was not extensive; he had read of
elderly dowagers who eked out their slender means by introducing the
daughters of rich Americans to English society, and the thing was not
in itself wholly indefensible; but he felt sure that Cynthia Vanrenen
needed no such social sponsor, while the mere bracketing of Count
Edouard Marigny with "Jimmy" Devar caused him to regard this unknown
Frenchman with a suspicion that was already active enough so far as
Mrs. Devar was concerned. And the Marchioness of Belfort, too! A
decrepit old cadger with an infallible system for roulette!

Perhaps his mood communicated itself to the accelerator. At any rate,
the Mercury seemed to sympathize, and it was a lucky hazard that kept
the glorious stretch of road between Reigate and Crawley free of
police traps on that memorable Wednesday. The car simply leaped out
of Surrey into Sussex, the undulating parklands on both sides of the
smooth highway appearing to float past in stately procession, and
there was a fine gleam in Cynthia's blue eyes when the first check to
a splendid run came in the outskirts of Crawley.

She leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Tea here, please," she said. Then she added, as if it were an
afterthought: "If you promise to let her rip in that style after we
reach the open country again I shall sit on the front seat."

The words were almost whispered into his ear. Certainly they were not
meant to enlighten Mrs. Devar, and Medenham, turning, found his face
very near the girl's.

"I'm bribed," he answered, and not until both were settled back in
their seats did they realize that either had said anything unusual.

Medenham, however, took his cup of tea _à la chauffeur_, helping
himself to bread and butter from a plate deposited on the bonnet by a
waiting-maid.

When the ladies reappeared from the interior of a roadside restaurant
he was in his place, ready to start. He did not offer to put them in
the car, adjust their wraps, and close the door. If Miss Vanrenen
liked to keep her promise, that was her affair, but no action on his
part would hint of prior knowledge that she intended to ride in front.

Nevertheless, he could not repress a smile when he heard Mrs. Devar's
distinctly chilly, "Oh, not at all!" in response to Cynthia's polite
apology for deserting her until they neared Brighton.

Somehow, the car underwent a subtle change when the girl took her seat
by his side. From a machine quivering with life and power it became a
triumphal chariot. By sheer perfection of mechanical energy it had
bridged the gulf that lay between the millionaire's daughter and the
hired man, since there could be no question that Cynthia Vanrenen
placed Viscount Medenham in no other category. Indeed, his occasional
lapses from the demeanor of a lower social grade might well have
earned him her marked disfavor, and, as there was no shred of personal
vanity in his character, he gave all the credit to the sentient
creature of steel and iron that was so ready to respond to his touch.

Swayed by an unconscious telepathy, the girl almost interpreted his
unspoken thought. She watched his deft manipulation of levers and
brakes, and fancied that his hands dwelt on the steering-wheel with a
caress.

"You have a real lovely automobile, Fitzroy," she said, "and I have a
sort of notion that you are devoted to it. May I ask--is it your own
car?"

"Yes. I bought it six months ago. I learnt to drive in France, and, as
soon as I heard of the new American engine, I--er--couldn't rest until
I had tried it."

He was on the point of saying something wholly different, but managed
to twist the second half of the sentence in time. What would Miss
Vanrenen have thought had he continued: "I sent my chauffeur to
England, and, on receipt of his report, I had this car shipped within
a week?"

There are problems too deep for speculation when a man is guiding a
ton of palpitating metal along a hedge-lined road at forty miles an
hour. This was one.

Cynthia, knowing nothing of any "new American engine," would die
rather than confess her ignorance. Moreover, she was pondering a
problem of her own. If it was not his master's car he might be open
to a bargain.

"Simmonds is an old friend of yours, I suppose?" she said.

"Yes, I have known him some years. We were in South Africa together."

"In the war, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"How dreadful! Have you ever killed anybody?"

"Not with petrol, I am happy to state."

There was an eloquent pause. Cynthia examined his reply, and
discovered that it covered a good deal of ground. Perhaps, too, it
conveyed the least little bit of a snub. Hence, her tone stiffened
perceptibly.

"I mentioned Simmonds," she explained, "because I think my father
might arrange--to the satisfaction of all parties, of course--that you
should carry through this present tour, while Simmonds would come into
our service when we return to London."

Medenham laughed. In its way, the compliment was graceful and well
meant, but the utter absurdity of his position was now thrust upon him
with overwhelming force.

"I am very much obliged to you, Miss Vanrenen," he said, venturing
to look once more into those alluring eyes, so shy, so daring, so
divinely wise and childishly candid. "If circumstances permitted,
there is nothing I would like better than to take you through this
Paradise of a June England; but it is quite impossible. Simmonds must
bring his car to Bristol, as I positively cannot be absent from town
longer than three days."

Cynthia did not pout. She nodded appreciation of the weighty if
undescribed business that called Fitzroy and his Mercury back to
London, but in her heart she mused on the strangeness of things, and
wondered if this smiling land produced many chauffeurs who lauded it
in such phrases.

Up and down Handcross Hill they whirred, treating that respectable
eminence as if it were a snow bump in the path of a flying toboggan.
Medenham had roamed the South Downs as a boy, and he was able now to
point out Chanctonbury Ring, the Devil's Dyke, Ditchling Beacon, and
the rest of the round-shouldered giants that guard the Weald. In the
mellow light of a superlatively fine afternoon the Downs wore their
gayest raiment of blue and purple, red and green--decked, too, with
ribands of white roads and ruffs of rose-laden hedges.

Cynthia forgot many times, and he hardly ever remembered, that he
was a chauffeur, and the miles, too, were disregarded until the sea
sparkled in their eyes as they emerged from the great gap which the
Devil forebore to use when he planned to swamp a land of churches by
cutting the famous dyke.

Then the girl awoke from a day-dream, and the car was stopped on the
pretense that this marvelous landscape must be viewed in silence and
at rest. She rejoined Mrs. Devar, and began instantly to expatiate on
the beauties of Sussex, so Medenham ran slowly down the hill through
Patcham and Preston into Brighton.

And there, sitting in the wide porch of the Hotel Metropole, was a
slim, handsome Frenchman, who sprang up with all the vivacity of his
race when the Mercury drew up at the foot of the steps, dusty after
its long run, but circumspect as though it had just quitted the
garage.

"Mrs. Devar, Miss Vanrenen! what a delightful surprise!" cried the
stranger with an accompaniment of wide smiles and hat flourishing.
"Who would have thought of meeting you here? _Voyez_, _donc_, I was
moping in solitude when suddenly the sky opens and you appear."

"_Deæ ex machinâ_, in fact, Monsieur Marigny," said Cynthia, shaking
hands with this overjoyed gentleman.

Mrs. Devar, not understanding, cackled loudly.

"We've had a lovely run from town, Count Edouard," she gushed, "and it
is just too awfully nice of you to be in Brighton. Now, _don't_ say
you have made all sorts of engagements for the evening."

"Such as they are they go by the board, dear lady," said the gallant
Count, who had good teeth, and showed them in a succession of grins.

"Ten to-morrow morning, Fitzroy," said Cynthia, turning on the steps
as she was about to enter the hotel. He lifted his cap.

"The car will be ready, Miss Vanrenen," said he.

He got down, and scowled, yes, actually scowled, at a porter who was
hauling too strongly at the straps and buckles of the dust-covered
trunks.

"Damage the car's paint and I'll raise bigger blisters on yours," was
what he said to the man. But his thoughts were of Count Edouard
Marigny, and, like the people's discussion of the Derby, they took the
form of question and answer.

"When is a coincidence not a coincidence?" he asked himself.

"When it is prearranged," was the answer.

Then he drove round to the yard at the rear of the hotel, where Dale
awaited him, for Medenham would intrust the cleaning of the car to no
other hands.

"You've booked my room at the Grand Hotel and taken my bag there?" he
inquired.

"Yes, my lord."

"Make these people give you the key when the door is locked for the
night, and bring the car to my hotel at nine o'clock."

He hurried away, and Dale looked after him.

"Something must ha' worried his lordship," said the man. "First time
I've ever seen him in a bad temper. An' what about Eyot? Three to one
the paper says. P'raps he'll think of it in the morning."




CHAPTER III

SOME EMOTIONS--WITHOUT A MORAL


Not until he was dressing, and the contents of his pockets were spread
on a table, did Medenham remember Dale's commission. It was quite
true, as he told Mrs. Devar, that he had backed Vendetta for a small
stake on his own account. But that was an afterthought, and the bet
was made with another bookmaker at reduced odds. Altogether, including
the few sovereigns in his possession at the beginning of the day, he
counted nearly fifty pounds in gold, an exceptionally large amount to
be carried in England, where considerations of weight alone render
banknotes preferable.

He slipped Dale's money into an envelope, and took thirty pounds to be
exchanged for notes by the hotel's cashier. At the same time he wrote
a telegram to his father, destroying two drafts before he evolved
something that left his story untold while quieting any scruples as to
lack of candor. It was not that the Earl would resent his unexpected
disappearance after nearly four years' absence from home, because
father and son had met in South Africa during the war, and were
together in Cannes and Paris subsequently. His difficulty was to
explain this freak journey satisfactorily. The Earl of Fairholme held
feudal views anent the place occupied in the world by the British
aristocracy. His own hot youth was crowded with episodes that Medenham
might regard with disdain, yet he would be shocked out of his well-fed
cynicism by the notion that his son was gallivanting round the country
as the chauffeur of an unconventional American girl and a middle-aged
harpy like Mrs. Devar.

So Medenham's message was non-committal.

     Aunt Susan was unable to come Epsom to-day. Have taken car
     to Brighton, and Bournemouth. Home Saturday, perhaps
     earlier. GEORGE.

Of course, he meant to fill in details verbally. It was possible in
conversation to impart a jesting turn to an adventure which would be
unconvincing and ambiguous in the bald phrases of a telegram.

Then he dined, filled a cigarette case from the box of Salonikas which
Tomkinson had not omitted to pack with his clothes, and strolled out,
bare-headed, to enrich Dale. He could trust his man absolutely, and
was quite sure that the Mercury would then be in the drying stage
after a thorough cleaning. Thus far he was justified, but he had not
counted on the pride of the born mechanic. Though the car was housed
for the night, when he entered the garage the hood was off, and Dale
was annoying two brothers of the craft by explaining the superiority
of _his_ engine to every other type of engine.

All three were bent over the cylinders, and Dale was saying:

"Just take a squint at them valves, will you?--ever seen anything like
'em before? Of course you haven't. Don't look like valves, eh? Can
you break 'em, can you warp 'em, can you pit 'em? D'ye twig how the
mixture reaches the cylinder? None of your shoulders or kinks to choke
it up--is there?--and the same with the exhaust. Would you ever have a
mushroom valve again after you've once cast your peepers over this
arrangement? Now, if I took up areonotting--if _I_ wanted to fly the
Channel----"

He stopped abruptly, having seen his master standing in the open
doorway.

"By gad, Dale," cried Medenham, "I have never heard your tongue
wagging in that fashion before."

Dale was flustered.

"Beg pardon, my lord, but I was only----" he began.

"Only using the cut-out, I fancy. Come here, I want you a minute."

The other chauffeurs suddenly discovered that they had urgent business
elsewhere. They vanished. Dale thought it necessary to explain.

"One of them chaps has a new French car, my lord, and he was blowing
so loudly about it that I had to take him down a peg or two."

Medenham grew interested. Like every keen motorist, he could "talk
shop" at all times.

"What sort of car?"

"A 59 Du Vallon, my lord. It is the first of its class in England, and
I rather think his guv'nor is running it on show."

"Indeed. Who is _he_?"

"A count Somebody-or-other, my lord. I did hear his name----"

"Not Count Edouard Marigny?" said Medenham, with a sharp emphasis that
startled Dale.

"That's him, my lord. I hope I haven't done anything wrong."

Medenham, early in life, had formed the habit of not expressing his
feelings when really vexed, and it stood him in good stead now. Dale's
blunder was almost irreparable, yet he could not find it in his heart
to blame the man for being an enthusiast.

"You have put me in a deuce of a fix," he said at last. "This
Frenchman is acquainted with Miss Vanrenen. He knows she is here, and
will probably see her off in the morning. If his chauffeur recognizes
the car he will be sure to speak of it. That gives the whole show
away."

"I'm very sorry, my lord----"

"Dash it all, there you go again. But it is largely my own fault. I
ought to have warned you, though I little expected this sort of a
mix-up. In future, Dale, while this trip lasts, you must forget my
title. Look here, I have brought you your winnings over Eyot--can't
you rig up some sort of a yarn that I am a sporting friend of yours,
and that you were just trying to be funny when you addressed me as 'my
lord'? If you have an opportunity, tell Count Marigny's man that your
job is taken temporarily by a driver named Fitzroy. By the way, is the
chauffeur a Frenchman, too?"

"No, my l----." Dale caught Medenham's eye, a very cold eye at that
instant. "No, sir. He's just a fitter from the London agency."

"Well, we must trust to luck. He may not remember me in my chauffeur's
kit, which is beastly uncomfortable, by the way. I must get you a
summer rig. Here is your money--five to one I took. Don't lose sight
of those two fellows, and spend this half sovereign on them. If you
can fill that chap with beer to-night he may have a head in the
morning that will keep him in bed too late to cause any mischief. When
we meet in Bournemouth and Bristol, say nothing to anybody about
either the car or me."

Dale was a model of sobriety, but the excitement of "fives" when he
looked for "threes" was too much for him.

"I'll tank him all right, my l----, I mean, sir," he vowed cheerfully.

Medenham lit a new cigarette and strolled out of the yard.

From the corner of his eye he saw Marigny's helper looking at
him. Without undue exaggeration, he craned his neck, rounded his
shoulders, and carried himself with the listless air of a Piccadilly
idler. He reflected, too, that a bare-headed man in evening dress
would not readily be identified with a leather-coated chauffeur, and
Dale, he hoped, was sufficiently endowed with mother wit to frame a
story plausible enough to account for his unforeseen appearance. On
the whole, the position was not so bad as it seemed in that first
moment when the owner of the 59 Du Vallon was revealed in the handsome
Count. In any event, what did it matter if his harmless subterfuge
were revealed? The girl would surely laugh, while Mrs. Devar would
squirm. So now for a turn along the front, and then to bed.

It was a perfect June evening, the fitting sequel to a day of unbroken
sunshine. A marvelous amber light hovered beyond the level line of the
sea to the west; an exquisite blue suffused the horizon from south to
east, deepening from sapphire to ultramarine as it blended with the
soft shadows of a summer's night. He found himself comparing the sky's
southeasterly tint with the azure depths of Cynthia Vanrenen's eyes,
but he shook off that fantasy quickly, crossed the roadway and
promenade, and, propping himself against the railings, turned a
resolute back on romance. He did not gain a great deal by this
maneuver, since his next active thought was centered in a species of
quest for the particular window among all those storeyed rows through
which Cynthia Vanrenen might even then be gazing at the shining
ocean.

He looked at his watch. Half-past nine.

"I am behaving like a blithering idiot," he told himself. "Miss
Vanrenen and her friends are either on the pier listening to the band,
or sitting over their coffee in the glass cage behind there. I'll wire
Simmonds in the morning to hurry up."

A man descended the steps of the hotel and walked straight across
King's Road. A light gray overcoat, thrown wide on his shoulders, gave
a lavish display of frilled shirt, and a gray Homburg hat was set
rakishly on one side of his head. In the half light Medenham at once
discerned the regular, waxen-skinned features of Count Marigny, and
during the next few seconds it really seemed as if the Frenchman were
making directly for him. But another man, short, rotund, very erect of
figure, and strutting in gait, came from the interior of a "shelter"
that stood a little to the right of Medenham's position on the rails.

"Hello, Marigny," said he jauntily.

The Count looked back towards the hotel. His tubby acquaintance
chuckled. The effort squeezed an eyeglass out of his right eye.

"Aie pas peur, mon vieux!" cried he in very colloquial French. "My
mother sent a note to say that the fair Cynthia has retired to her
room to write letters. I have been waiting here ten minutes."

Now, it chanced that Medenham's widespread touring in France had
rubbed up his knowledge of the language. It is ever the ear that needs
training more than the tongue, and in all likelihood he would not have
caught the exact meaning of the words were it not for the hap of
recent familiarity with the accents of all sorts and conditions of
French-speaking folk.

"Jimmy Devar!" he breathed, and his amazement lost him Marigny's
muttered answer.

But he heard Devar's confident outburst as the two walked off together
in the direction of the West Pier.

"You are growing positively nervous, my dear Edouard. And why? The
affair arranges itself admirably. I shall be always on hand, ready to
turn up exactly at the right moment. What the deuce, this is the luck
of a lifetime...."

The squeaky, high-pitched voice--a masculine variant of Mrs. Devar's
ultra-fashionable intonation--died away midst the chatter and laughter
of other promenaders. Medenham's first impulse was to follow and
listen, since Devar had yielded to the common delusion of imagining
that none except his companion on the sea-front that night understood
a foreign language. But he swept the notion aside ere it had well
presented itself as a means of solving an astounding puzzle.

"No, dash it all, I'm not a private detective," he muttered angrily.
"Why should I interfere? Confound Simmonds, and d----n that railway
van! I have a good mind to hand the car over to Dale in the morning
and return to town by the first train."

If he really meant what he said he ought to have gone back to his
hotel, played billiards for an hour, and sought his bedroom with an
easy conscience. He was debating the point when the conceit intruded
itself that Cynthia's pretty head was at that moment bent over a
writing-table in a certain well-lighted corner apartment of the second
floor, so he compromised with his half-formed intent, whisked round to
face the sea again, and lighted another cigarette from the glowing end
of its predecessor. Some part of his unaccountable irritation took
wings with the cloud of smoke.

"Blessed if I can tell why I should worry," he communed. "Never saw
the girl before to-day ... shall never see her again if I put Dale
in charge.... Her father must be a special sort of fool, though, to
trust her to the care of the Devar woman.... What was it that rotter
said?--'The affair arranges itself admirably.' And he would be 'always
on hand.' What is arranging itself?... And why should Jimmy Devar be
ready, if need be, 'to turn up exactly at the right moment?' I suppose
the answer to the first bit of the acrostic is simple enough. Cynthia
Vanrenen is to become the Countess Marigny, and the Devar gang stands
in on the cash proceeds. Oh, a nice scheme! This Frenchman is posted
as to the tour. By the most curious of coincidences he will reappear
at Bournemouth, or Bristol, or in the Wye Valley. What more natural
than a day's run in company?... Ah, I've got it! Jimmy is to come
along when Marigny thinks that Cynthia will take a seat in the 59 Du
Vallon for a change--just to try the new French car.... By gad, I
shall have a word to say there.... Steady, now, George Augustus! Woa,
my boy; keep a tight hand on the reins. Why in thunder should you
concern yourself with the wretched business, anyhow?"

It was a marvelously still night. Beneath him, on an asphalted path
nearly level with the stone-strewed beach, passed a young couple. The
man's voice came up to him.

"Jones expects to be taken into partnership after this season, and I
am pretty certain to be given the management of the woolen department.
If that comes off, no more long hours in the shop for you, Lucy, but a
nice little house up there on the hill, just as quick as we can find
it."

"Oh, Charlie dear, I shall never be tired then...."

A black arm was suddenly silhouetted across the shoulders of a white
blouse, whose wearer received a reassuring hug.

"Let's reckon up," said the owner of the arm--"July, August,
September--three months, sweetheart...."

Medenham had never given a thought to marrying until his father hinted
at the notion during dinner the previous evening, and he had laughed
at it, being absolutely heart-whole. There was something irresistibly
comical then about the Earl's bland theory that Fairholme House needed
a sprightly viscountess, yet now, twenty-four hours later, he could
extract no shred of humor from the idyl of a draper's assistant. It
seemed to be a perfectly natural thing that these lovers should talk
of mating. Of what else should they whisper on this midsummer's night,
when the gloaming already bore the promise of dawn, and the glory of
the sea and sky spread quiet harmonies through the silent air?

Perhaps he sighed as he turned away, but his own evidence on that
point would be inconclusive, since the first object his wondering eyes
dwelt on was the graceful figure of Cynthia Vanrenen. There was no
possibility of error. An arc lamp blazed overhead, and, to make
assurance doubly sure, his recognition of Cynthia was obviously
duplicated by Cynthia's recognition of her deputy chauffeur.

In the girl's case some degree of surprise was justified. It is a
truism of social life that far more distinctiveness is attached to the
seemingly democratic severity of evening dress than to any other class
of masculine garniture. Medenham now looked exactly what he was--a man
born and bred in the purple. No one could possibly mistake this
well-groomed soldier for Dale or Simmonds. His clever, resourceful
face, his erect carriage, the very suggestion of mess uniform conveyed
by his clothing, told of lineage and a career. He might, in sober
earnest, have been compelled to earn a living by driving a motor-car,
but no freak of fortune could rob him of his birthright as an
aristocrat.

Of course, Cynthia was easily first in the effort to recover disturbed
wits.

"Like myself, you have been tempted out by this beautiful night, Mr.
Fitzroy," she said.

Then "Mr." was a concession to his attire; somehow she imagined it
would savor of presumption if she addressed him as an inferior.
She could not define her mental attitude in words, but her quick
intelligence responded to its subtle influence as a mirrored lake
records the passing of a breeze. Very dainty and self-possessed she
looked as she stood there smiling at him. Her motor dust-coat was
utilized as a wrap. Beneath it she wore a white muslin dress of a
studied simplicity that, to another woman's assessing gaze, would
reveal its expensiveness. She had tied a veil of delicate lace around
her hair and under her chin, and Medenham noted, with a species of
awe, that her eyes, so vividly blue in daylight, were now dark as the
sky at night.

And he was strangely tongue-tied. He found nothing to say until after
a pause that verged on awkwardness. Then he floundered badly.

"I am prepared to vouch for any explanation so long as it brings you
here, Miss Vanrenen," he said.

Cynthia wanted to laugh. It was sufficiently ridiculous to be
compelled, as it were, to treat a paid servant as an equal, but it
savored of madness to find him verging on the perilous borderland of a
flirtation.

"Do you wish, then, to consult me on any matter?" she asked, with
American directness.

"I was standing here and thinking of you," he said. "Perhaps that
accounts for your appearance. Since you have visited India you may
have heard that the higher Buddhists, when they are anxious that
another person shall act according to their desire, remain motionless
in front of that person's residence and concentrate ardent thought on
their fixed intent.... Sitting in _dhurma_ on a man, they call it. I
suppose the same principle applies to a woman."

"It follows that you are a higher Buddhist, and that you willed I
should come out. Your theory of sitting on the door-mat, is it?
wobbles a bit in practice, because I really ran downstairs to tell
Mrs. Devar something I had forgotten previously. Not finding her, I
decided on a stroll. Instead of crossing the road I walked up to the
left a couple of blocks. Then I noticed the pier, and meant to have a
look at it before returning to the hotel. Anyhow, you wanted me, Mr.
Fitzroy, and here I am. What can I do for you?"

Her tone of light raillery, supplemented by that truly daring
adaptation of the method of gaining a cause favored by the esoteric
philosophy of the East, went far to restore Medenham's wandering
faculties.

"I wanted to ask you a few questions, Miss Vanrenen," he explained.

"Pray do, as they say in Boston."

But he was not quite himself yet. He noticed that the lights were
extinguished in the corner of the second floor.

"Is that your room?" he asked, pointing to it.

"Yes."

Her air of blank amazement supplied a further tonic.

"Queer thing!" he said. "I thought so. More of the occult, I suppose.
But I really wished to speak to you about Mrs. Devar."

Cynthia was obviously relieved.

"Dear me!" she cried. "You two have taken a violent dislike to each
other. You see, Mr. Fitzroy, we Americans are rather pleased than
otherwise if a man acts and speaks like a gentleman even though he has
to earn a living by hustling an automobile, but your sure-enough
British dames exact a kind of servility from a chauffeur that doesn't
seem to fit in with your make-up. Servility is a hard word, but it is
the best I can throw on the screen at the moment, and I'm real sorry
if I have hurt your feelings by using it."

Medenham smiled. Each instant his calmer judgment showed more and more
clearly that he could not offer any valid excuse for interference in
the girl's affairs. For all he knew to the contrary, she might be
tremulous with delight at the prospect of becoming a French countess;
if that were so, the fact that he disapproved of Mrs. Devar's
matchmaking tactics would be received very coldly. Cynthia's natural
interpretation of his allusion to her chaperon offered a means of
escape from a difficult position.

"I am greatly obliged by your hint," he said. "Not that my lack of
good manners is of much account, seeing that I am only a stop gap for
the courtly Simmonds, but I shall endeavor to profit by it in my next
situation."

"Now you are getting at me," cried Cynthia, her eyes sparkling
somewhat. "Do you know, Mr. Fitzroy, I am inclined to think you are
not a chauffeur at all."

"I assure you there is not a man living who understands my special
type of car better," he protested.

"That isn't what I mean, so don't wriggle. You met Simmonds when he
was in trouble, and just offered to take his place for a day or so,
thereby doing him a good turn--isn't that the truth?"

"Yes."

"And you are not in the automobile business?"

"I am, for the time being."

"Well, I am glad to hear it. I was shy of telling you when we reached
the hotel, but you understand, of course, that I pay your expenses
during this trip. The arrangement with Simmonds was that my father
ante'd for petrol and allowed twelve shillings a day for the
chauffeur's meals and lodgings. Is that satisfactory?"

"Quite satisfactory, Miss Vanrenen," said Medenham, fully alive to the
girl's effective ruse for the re-establishment of matters on a proper
footing.

"So you don't need to worry about Mrs. Devar. In any event, since you
refused my offer to hire you for the tour, you will not see a great
deal of her," she went on, a trifle hurriedly.

"There only remains one other point," he said, trying to help her.
"Would you mind giving me Mr. Vanrenen's address in Paris?"

"He is staying at the Ritz--but why do you want to know that?" she
demanded with a sudden lifting of eyebrows, for the hope was strong in
her that he might be induced to change his plans so far as the next
nine days were concerned.

"A man in my present position ought always to ascertain the
whereabouts of millionaires interested in motoring," he answered
promptly. "And now, pardon me for advising you not to walk towards the
pier alone."

"Gracious me! Why not?"

"There is a certain class of boisterous holiday-maker who might annoy
you--not by downright ill-behavior, but by exercising a crude humor
which is deemed peculiarly suitable to the seaside, though it would be
none the less distressing to you."

"In the States that sort of man gets shot," she said, and her cheeks
glowed with a rush of color.

"Here, on the contrary, he often takes the young lady's arm and walks
off with her," persisted Medenham.

"I'm going to that pier," she announced. "Guess you'd better escort
me, Mr. Fitzroy."

"Fate closes every door in my face," he said sadly. "I cannot go with
you--in that direction."

"Well, of all the odd people!--why not that way, if any other?"

"Because Count Edouard Marigny, the gentleman whose name I could not
help overhearing to-day, has just gone there--with another man."

"Have you a grudge against him, too?"

"I never set eyes on him before six o'clock this evening, but I
imagine you would not care to have him see you walking with your
chauffeur."

Cynthia looked up and down the broad sea front, with its thousands of
lamps and droves of promenaders.

"At last I am beginning to size up this dear little island," she said.
"I may go with you to a racetrack, I may sit by your side for days in
an automobile, I may even eat your luncheon and drink your aunt's St.
Galmier, but I may not ask you to accompany me a hundred yards from my
hotel to a pier. Very well, I'll quit. But before I go, do tell me one
thing. Did you really mean to bring your aunt to Epsom to-day?"

"Yes."

"A mother's sister sort of aunt--a nice old lady with white hair?"

"One would almost fancy you had met her, Miss Vanrenen."

"Perhaps I may, some day. Father and I are going to Scotland for a
month from the twelfth of August. After that we shall be in the Savoy
Hotel about six weeks. Bring her to see me."

Medenham almost jumped when he heard of the projected visit to the
Highlands, but some demon of mischief urged him to say:

"Let's reckon up. July, August, September--three months----"

He stopped with a jerk. Cynthia, already aware of some vague power she
possessed of stirring this man's emotions, did not fail to detect his
air of restraint.

"It isn't a proposition that calls for such a lot of calculation," she
said sharply. "Good-night, Mr. Fitzroy. I hope you are punctual
morning-time. When there is a date to be kept, I'm a regular alarm
clock, my father says."

She sped across the road, and into the hotel. Then Medenham noticed
how dark it had become--reminded him of the tropics, he thought--and
made for his own caravanserai, while his brain was busy with a number
of disturbing but nebulous problems that seemed to be pronounced in
character yet singularly devoid of a beginning, a middle, or an end.
Indeed, so puzzling and contradictory were they that he soon fell
asleep. When he rose at seven o'clock next morning the said problems
had vanished. They must have been part and parcel with the glamor of a
June night, and a starlit sky, and the blue depths of the sea and of a
girl's eyes, for the wizard sun had dispelled them long ere he awoke.
But he did not telegraph to Simmonds.

Dale brought the car to the Grand Hotel in good time, and Medenham ran
it some distance along the front before drawing up at the Metropole.
By that means he dissipated any undue curiosity that might be
experienced by some lounger on the pavement who happened to notice the
change of chauffeurs, while he avoided a prolonged scrutiny by the
visitors already packed in chairs on both sides of the porch. He kept
his face hidden during the luggage strapping process, and professed
not to be aware of Cynthia's presence until she bade him a cheery
"Good-morning."

Of course, Marigny was there, and Mrs. Devar gushed loudly for the
benefit of the other people while settling herself comfortably in the
tonneau.

"It was awfully devey of you, Count Edouard, to enliven our first
evening away from town. No such good fortune awaits us in Bournemouth,
I am afraid."

"If I am to accept that charming reference as applying to myself, I
can only say that _my_ good fortune has exhausted itself already,
madame," said the Frenchman. "When do you return to London?"

"About the end of next week," put in Cynthia.

"And your father--that delightful Monsieur Vanrenen," said the Count,
breaking into French, "he will join you there?"

"Oh, yes. My father and I are seldom separated a whole fortnight."

"Then I shall have the pleasure of seeing you there. I go to-day to
Salisbury--after that, to Hereford and Liverpool."

"Why, we shall be in Hereford one day soon. What fun if we met again!"

Marigny looked to heaven, or as far in the direction popularly
assigned to heaven as the porch of the Metropole would permit. He was
framing a suitable speech, but the Mercury shot out into the open road
with a noiseless celerity that disconcerted him.

Medenham at once slackened speed and leaned back.

"I'm very sorry," he said, "but I clean forgot to ask if you were
quite ready to start."

Cynthia laughed.

"Go right ahead, Fitzroy," she cried. "Guess the Count is pretty mad,
anyhow. He was telling us last night that his Du Vallon is the only
car that can hit up twenty at the first buzz."

"Unpardonable rudeness," murmured Mrs. Devar.

"On the Count's part?" asked the girl demurely.

"No, of course not--on the part of this chauffeur person."

"Oh, I like him," was the candid answer. "He is a chauffeur of moods,
but he can make this car hum. He and I had quite a long chat last
night after dinner."

Mrs. Devar sat up quickly.

"After dinner--last night!" she gasped.

"Yes--I ran into him outside the hotel."

"At what time?"

"About ten o'clock. I came to the lounge, but you had vanished, and
the wonderful light on the sea drew me out of doors."

"My dear Cynthia!"

"Well, go on; that sounds like the beginning of a letter."

Mrs. Devar suddenly determined not to feel scandalized.

"Ah, well!" she sighed, "one must relax a little when touring, but you
Americans have such free and easy manners that we staid Britons are
apt to lose our breath occasionally when we hear of something out of
the common."

"From what Fitzroy said when I told him I was going as far as the pier
unaccompanied it seems to me that you staid Britons can be freer if
not easier," retorted Miss Vanrenen.

Her friend smiled sourly.

"If he disapproved he was right, I admit," she purred.

Cynthia withheld any further confidences.

"What a splendid morning!" she said. "England is marvelously
attractive on a day like this. And now, where is the map? I didn't
look up our route yesterday evening. But Fitzroy has it. We lunch at
Winchester, I know, and there I see my first English Cathedral. Father
advised me to leave St. Paul's until I visit it with him. He says it
is the most perfect building in the world architecturally, but that no
one would realize it unless the facts were pointed out. When we were
in Rome he said that St. Peter's, grand as it is, is all wrong in
construction. The thrust downwards from the dome is false, it seems."

"Really," said Mrs. Devar, who had just caught sight of Lady
Somebody-or-other at the window of a house in Hove, and hoped that her
ladyship's eyes were sufficiently good to distinguish at least one
occupant of the car.

"Yes; and Sir Christopher Wren mixed beams of oak with the stonework
of his pillars, too. It gave them strength, he believed, though
Michael Angelo had probably never heard of such a thing."

"You don't say so."

The other woman had traveled far on similar conversational counters.
They would have failed with Cynthia, but the girl had opened the map,
and talk lagged for the moment.

Leaving the coast at Shoreham, Medenham turned the car northward at
Bramber, with its stone-roofed cottages gilded with lichen, its tiny
gardens gay with flowers, and the ruins of its twelfth-century castle
frowning from the crest of an elm-clothed hill. Two miles to the
northwest they came upon ancient Steyning, now a sleepy country town,
but of greater importance than Bath or Birmingham or Southampton in
the days of the Confessor, and redolent of the past by reason of its
church, with an early Norman chancel, its houses bearing stone
moldings and window mullions of the Elizabethan period, and its quaint
street names, such as Dog Lane, Sheep-pen Street, and Chantry Green,
where two martyrs were burnt.

Thence the way lay through the leafy wonderland of West Sussex, when
the Mercury crept softly through Midhurst and Petersfield into
Hampshire, and so to Winchester, where Cynthia, enraptured with the
cathedral, used up a whole reel of films, and bought some curios
carved out of oak imbedded in the walls when the Conqueror held
England in his firm grip.

They lunched at a genuine old coaching-house in the main street, and
Medenham persuaded the girl to turn aside from Salisbury in order to
pass through the heart of the New Forest. She sat with him in front
then, and their talk dealt more with the magnificent scenery than with
personal matters until they reached Ringwood, where they halted for
tea.

Before alighting at the inn there she asked him where he meant to stay
in Bournemouth. He answered the one question by another.

"You put up at the Bath Hotel, I think?" he said.

"Yes. Someone told me it was more like a Florentine picture gallery
than a hotel. Is that true?"

"I have not been to Florence, but the picture gallery notion is all
right. When I was a youngster I came here often, and my--my people
always--well, you see----"

He nibbled his mustache in dismay, for it was hard to keep up a
pretense when Cynthia was so near. She ended the sentence for him.

"You came to the Bath Hotel. Why not stay there to-night?"

"I would like it very much, if you have no objection."

"Just the opposite. But--please forgive me for touching on money
matters--the charges may be rather dear. Won't you let me tell the
head waiter to--to include your bill with ours?"

"On the strict condition that you deduct twelve shillings from my
account," he said, stealing a glance at her.

"I shall be quite business-like, I promise."

She was smiling at the landscape, or at some fancy that took her,
perhaps. But it followed that a messenger was sent for Dale to the
hostelry where he had booked a room for his master, and that Mrs.
Devar, after one stony and indignant glare, whispered to Cynthia in
the dining-room:

"Can that man in evening dress, sitting alone near the window, by any
possibility be our chauffeur?"

"Yes," laughed the girl. "That is Fitzroy. Say, doesn't he look fine
and dandy? Don't you wish he was with us--to order the wine? And, by
the way, is there a pier at Bournemouth?"




CHAPTER IV

SHADOWS--WITH OCCASIONAL GLEAMS


Mrs. Devar ate her soup in petrified silence. Among the diners were at
least two peers and a countess, all of whom she knew slightly; at no
other time during the last twenty years would she have missed such an
opportunity of impressing the company in general and her companion in
particular by waddling from table to table and greeting these
acquaintances with shrill volubility.

But to-night she was beginning to be alarmed. Her youthful protégée
was carrying democratic training too far; it was quite possible that a
request to modify an unconventional freedom of manner where Fitzroy
was concerned would meet with a blank refusal. That threatened a real
difficulty in the near future, and she was much perturbed by being
called on to decide instantly on a definite course of action. Too
strong a line might have worse consequences than a _laissez faire_
attitude. As matters stood, the girl was eminently plastic, her
naturally gentle disposition inducing respect for the opinions and
wishes of an older and more experienced woman, yet there was a
fearlessness, a frank candor of thought, in Cynthia's character that
awed and perplexed Mrs. Devar, in whom the unending struggle to keep
afloat in the swift and relentless torrent of social existence had
atrophied every sense save that of self-preservation. An open rupture,
such as she feared might take place if she asserted her shadowy
authority, was not to be dreamed of. What was to be done? Small
wonder, then, that she should tackle her fish vindictively.

"Are you angry because Fitzroy is occupying the same hotel as
ourselves?" asked Cynthia at last.

The girl had amused herself by watching the small coteries of
stiff and starched Britons scattered throughout the room; she was
endeavoring to classify the traveled and the untraveled by varying
degrees of frigidity. As it happened, she was wholly wrong in her
rough analysis. The Englishman who has wandered over the map is, if
anything, more self-contained than his stay-at-home brother. He is
often a stranger in his own land, and the dozen most reserved men
present that evening were probably known by name and deed throughout
the widest bounds of the empire.

But, though eyes and brain were busy, she could not help noticing Mrs.
Devar's taciturn mood. That a born gossip, a retailer of personal
reminiscences confined exclusively to "the best people," should eat
stolidly for five consecutive minutes, seemed somewhat of a miracle,
and Cynthia, as was her habit, came straight to the point.

Mrs. Devar managed to smile, pouting her lips in wry mockery of the
suggestion that a chauffeur's affairs should cause her any uneasiness
whatsoever.

"I was really thinking of our tour," she lied glibly. "I am so sorry
you missed seeing Salisbury Cathedral. Why was the route altered?"

"Because Fitzroy remarked that the cathedral would always remain at
Salisbury, whereas a perfect June day in the New Forest does not come
once in a blue moon when one really wants it."

"For a person of his class he appears to say that sort of thing rather
well."

Cynthia's arched eyebrows were raised a little.

"Why do you invariably insist on the class distinction?" she cried.
"I have always been taught that in England the barrier of rank is
being broken down more and more every day. Your society is the easiest
in the world to enter. You tolerate people in the highest circles
who would certainly suffer from cold feet if they showed up too
prominently in New York or Philadelphia; isn't it rather out of
fashion to be so exclusive?"

"Our aristocracy has such an assured position that it can afford to
unbend," quoted the other.

"Oh, is that it? I heard my father say the other day that it has often
made him tired to see the way in which some of your titled nonentities
grovel before a Lithuanian Jew who is a power on the Rand. But
unbending is a different thing to groveling, perhaps?"

Mrs. Devar sighed, yet she gave a moment's scrutiny to a wine-list
brought by the head waiter.

"A small bottle of 61, please," she said in an undertone.

Then she sighed again, deprecating the Vanrenen directness.

"Unfortunately, my dear, few of our set can avoid altogether the
worship of the golden calf."

Cynthia thrust an obstinate chin into the argument.

"People will do things for bread and butter that they would shy at if
independent," she said. "I can understand the calf proposition much
more easily than the snobbishness that would forbid a gentleman like
Fitzroy from eating a meal in the same apartment as his employers,
simply because he earns money by driving an automobile."

In her earnestness, Cynthia had gone just a little beyond the bounds
of fair comment, and Mrs. Devar was quick to seize the advantage thus
offered.

"From some points of view, Fitzroy and I are in the same boat," she
said quietly. "Still, I cannot agree that it is snobbish to regard a
groom or a coachman as a social inferior. I have been told that there
are several broken-down gentlemen driving omnibuses in London, but
that is no reason why one should ask one of them to dinner, even
though his taste in wine might be beyond dispute."

Cynthia had already regretted her impulsive outburst. Her vein of
romance was imbedded in a rock of good sense, and she took the
implied reproof penitently.

"I am afraid my sympathies rather ran away with my manners," she said.
"Please forgive me. I really didn't mean to charge you with being a
snob. The absurdity of the statement carries its own refutation. I
spoke in general terms, and I am willing to admit that I was wrong in
asking the man to come here to-night. But the incident happened quite
naturally. He mentioned the fact that he often stayed in the hotel as
a boy----"

"Very probably," agreed Mrs. Devar cheerfully. "We are all subject to
ups and downs. For my part, I was speaking _à la_ chaperon, my sole
thought being to safeguard you from the disagreeable busy-bodies who
misconstrue one's motives. And now, let us talk of something more
amusing. You see that woman in old rose brocade--she is sitting with a
bald-headed man at the third table on your left. Well, that is the
Countess of Porthcawl, and the man with her is Roger Ducrot, the
banker. Porthcawl is a most complaisant husband. He never comes within
a thousand miles of Millicent. She is awfully nice; clever, and witty,
and the rest of it--quite a man's woman. We are sure to meet her in
the lounge after dinner and I will introduce you."

Cynthia said she would be delighted. Reading between the lines of Mrs.
Devar's description, it was not easy to comprehend the distinction
that forbade friendship with Fitzroy while offering it with Millicent,
Countess of Porthcawl. But the girl was resolved not to open a new
rift. In her heart she longed for the day that would reunite her to
her father; meanwhile, Mrs. Devar must be dealt with gently.

Despite its tame ending, this unctuous discussion on social ethics led
to wholly unforeseen results.

The allusion to a possible pier at Bournemouth meant more than Mrs.
Devar imagined, but Cynthia resisted the allurements of another
entrancing evening, went early to her room, and wrote duty letters for
a couple of hours. The excuse served to cut short her share of the
Countess's brilliant conversation, though Mr. Ducrot tried to make
himself very agreeable when he heard the name of Vanrenen.

Medenham, standing in the hall, suddenly came face to face with Lady
Porthcawl, who was endowed with an unerring eye for minute shades of
distinction in the evening dress garments of the opposite sex. Her
correspondence consisted largely of picture postcards, and she had
just purchased some stamps from the hall porter when she saw Medenham
take a telegram from the rack where it had been reposing since the
afternoon. It was, she knew, addressed to "Viscount Medenham." That,
and her recollection of his father, banished doubt.

"George!" she cried, with a charming air of having found the one man
whom she was longing to meet, "don't say I've grown so old that you
have forgotten me!"

He started, rather more violently than might be looked for in a
shikari whose nerves had been tested in many a ticklish encounter with
other members of the cat tribe. In fact, he had just been disturbed by
coming across the unexpected telegram, wherein Simmonds assured his
lordship that the rejuvenated car would arrive at the College Green
Hotel, Bristol, on Friday evening. At the very moment that he realized
the imminence of Cynthia's disappearance into the void it was doubly
disconcerting to be hailed by a woman who knew his world so intimately
that it would be folly to smile vacantly at her presumed mistake.

Some glint of annoyance must have leaped to his eyes, for the lively
countess glanced around with a mimic fright that testified to her
skill as an actress.

"Good gracious!" she whispered, "have I given you away? I couldn't
guess you were here under a _nom de voyage_--now, could I?--when that
telegram has been staring at everybody for hours."

"You have misinterpreted my amazement, Lady Porthcawl," he said,
spurred into self-possession by the hint at an intrigue. "I could not
believe that time would turn back even for a pretty woman. You look
younger than ever, though I have not seen you for----"

"Oh, hush!" she cried. "Don't spoil your nice speech by counting
years. When did you arrive in England? Are you alone--really? You've
grown quite a man in your jungles. Will you come to the lounge? I
want ever so much to have a long talk with you. Mr. Ducrot is
there--the financier, you know--but I have left him safely anchored
alongside Maud Devar--a soft-furred old pussie who is clawing me now
behind my back, I am sure. Have you ever met her? Wiggy Devar she was
christened in Monte, because an excited German leaned over her at the
tables one night and things happened to her coiffure. And to show you
how broad-minded I am, I'll get her to bring downstairs the sweetest
and daintiest American ingénue you'd find between here and Chicago,
even if you went by way of Paris. Cynthia Vanrenen is her name,
daughter of _the_ Vanrenen. He made, not a pile, but a pyramid, out of
Milwaukees. She is _it_--a pukka Gibson girl, quite ducky, with the
dearest bit of an accent, and Mamma Devar is gadding around with her
in a mo-car. Do come!"

Medenham was able to pick and choose where he listed in answering this
hail of words.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said, "but the telegram I have just received
affects all my plans. I must hurry away this instant. When will you be
in town? Then I shall call, praying meanwhile that there may be no
Ducrots or Devars there to blight a glorious gossip. If you bring me
up to date as to affairs in Park Lane I'll reciprocate about the giddy
equator. How--or perhaps I ought to say where--is Porthcawl?"

"In China," snapped her ladyship, fully alive to Medenham's polite
evasion of her blandishments.

"By gad," he laughed, "that is a long way from Bournemouth. Well,
good-bye. Keep me a date in Clarges Street."

"Clarges Street is off the map," she said coldly. "It's South
Belgravia, verging on Pimlico, nowadays. That is why Porthcawl is in
China ... and it explains Ducrot, too."

An unconscious bitterness crept into the smooth voice; Medenham, who
hated confidences from the butterfly type of woman, nevertheless
pitied her.

"Tell me where you live and I'll come round and hear all about it," he
said sympathetically.

She gave him an address, and suddenly smiled on him with a yearning
tenderness. She watched his tall figure as he strode down the hill
towards the town to keep an imaginary appointment.

"He used to be a nice boy," she sighed, "and now he is a man....
Heigh-ho, you're a back number, Millie, dear!"

But she was her own bright self when she returned to the bald-headed
Ducrot and the bewigged Mrs. Devar.

"What a small world it is!" she vowed. "I ran across Medenham in the
hall."

The banker's shining forehead wrinkled in a reflective frown.

"Medenham?" he said.

"Fairholme's eldest son."

Mrs. Devar chortled.

"Such fun!" she said. "Our chauffeur calls himself George Augustus
Fitzroy."

"How odd!" agreed Countess Millicent.

"You people speak in riddles. Who or what is odd?" asked Ducrot.

"Oh, don't worry, but listen to that adorable waltz." Ducrot's
polished dome compared badly with the bronzed skin of the nice boy who
had grown to be a man, so her ladyship's rebellious tongue sought
safety in silence, since she could not afford to quarrel with him.

It is certainly true that the gods make mad those whom they mean to
destroy. Never was woman nearer to a momentous discovery than Mrs.
Devar at that instant, but her active brain was plotting how best to
develop a desirable acquaintance in Roger Ducrot, financier, and she
missed utterly the astounding possibility that Viscount Medenham and
George Augustus Fitzroy might be one and the same person.

In any other conditions Millicent Porthcawl's sharp wits could
scarcely have failed to ferret out the truth. Even if Cynthia were
present it was almost a foregone conclusion that the girl would have
told how Fitzroy joined her. The luncheon provided for a missing aunt,
the crest on the silver and linen, the style of the Mercury, a chance
allusion to this somewhat remarkable chauffeur's knowledge of the
South Downs and of Bournemouth, would surely have put her ladyship on
the right track. From sheer enjoyment of an absurd situation she would
have caused Fitzroy to be summoned then and there, if only to see
Wiggy Devar's crestfallen face on learning that she had entertained a
viscount unawares.

But the violins were singing the Valse Bleu, and Cynthia was upstairs,
longing for an excuse to venture forth into the night, and three
people, at least, in the crowded lounge were thinking of anything but
the amazing oddity that had puzzled Ducrot, who did not con his Burke.

Medenham, of course, realized that he had been vouchsafed another
narrow escape. What the morrow might bring forth he neither knew nor
cared. The one disconcerting fact that already shaped itself in the
mists of the coming day was Simmonds tearing breathlessly along the
Bath Road during the all too brief hours between morn and evening.

It is not to be wondered at if he read Cynthia's thoughts. There is a
language without code or symbol known to all young men and maidens--a
language that pierces stout walls and leaps wide valleys--and that
unlettered tongue whispered the hope that the girl might saunter
towards the pier. He turned forthwith into the public gardens, and
quickened his pace. Arrived at the pier, he glanced up at the hotel.
Of girls there were many on cliff and roadway, girls summer-like in
attire, girls slender of waist and airy of tread, but no Cynthia. He
went on the pier, and met more than one pair of bright eyes, but not
Cynthia's.

Then he made off in a fume to Dale's lodging, secured a linen
dust-coat which the man happened to have with him, returned to the
hotel, and hurried unseen to his room, an easy matter in the Royal
Bath, where many staircases twine deviously to the upper floors, and
brilliantly decorated walls dazzle the stranger.

He counted on the exigencies of Lady Porthcawl's toilette stopping a
too early appearance in the morning, and he was right.

At ten o'clock, when Cynthia and Mrs. Devar came out, the men lounging
near the porch were too interested in the girl and the car to bestow a
glance on the chauffeur. Ducrot was there, bland and massive in a golf
suit. He pestered Cynthia with inquiries as to the exact dates when
her father would be in London, and Medenham did not hesitate to cut
short the banker's awkward gallantries by throwing the Mercury into
her stride with a whirl.

"By Jove, Ducrot," said someone, "your pretty friend's car jumped off
like a gee-gee under the starting gate."

"If that chauffeur of hers was mine, I'd boot him," was the wrathful
reply.

"Why? What's he done?"

"He strikes me as an impudent puppy."

"Anyhow, he can swing a motor. See that!" for the Mercury had executed
a corkscrew movement between several vehicles with the sinuous grace
of a greyhound.

Now it was Mrs. Devar, and not Cynthia, who leaned forward and said
pleasantly:

"You seem to be in a hurry to leave Bournemouth, Fitzroy."

"I am not enamored of bricks and mortar on a fine morning," he
answered.

"Well, I have full confidence in you, but don't embroil us with the
police. We have a good deal to see to-day, I understand."

Then he heard the strenuous voice addressing Cynthia.

"Millicent Porthcawl says that Glastonbury is heavenly, and Wells a
peaceful dream. I visited Cheddar once, some years ago, but it rained,
and I felt like a watery cheese."

Lady Porthcawl's commendation ought to have sanctified Glastonbury and
Wells--Mrs. Devar's blue-moldy joke might even have won a smile--but
Cynthia was preoccupied; strange that she, too, should be musing of
Simmonds and a hurrying car, for Medenham had told her that the
transfer would take place at Bristol.

She was only twenty-two, and her very extensive knowledge of the world
had been obtained by three years of travel and constant association
with her father. But her lines had always been cast in pleasant
places. She had no need to deny herself any of the delights that life
has to offer to youth and good health and unlimited means. The
discovery that friendship called for discretion came now almost as a
shock. It seemed to be a stupid social law that barred the way when
she wished to enjoy the company of a well-favored man whom fate had
placed at her disposal for three whole days. Herself a blue-blooded
American, descendant of old Dutch and New England families, she was
quite able to discriminate between reality and sham. Mrs. Devar, she
was sure, was a pinchbeck aristocrat; Count Edouard Marigny might have
sprung from many generations of French gentlemen, but her paid
chauffeur was his superior in every respect save one--since, to all
appearance, Marigny was rich and Fitzroy was poor.

Curiously enough, the man whose alert shoulders and well-poised head
were ever in view as the car hummed joyously through the pine woods
had taken on something of the mere mechanic in aspect since donning
that serviceable linen coat. The garment was weather-stained. It bore
records of over-lubrication, of struggles with stiff outer covers, of
rain and mud--that bird-lime type of mud peculiar to French military
roads in the Alpes Maritimes--while a zealous detective might have
found traces of the black and greasy deposit that collects on the door
handles and side rails of P. L. M. railway carriages. Medenham
borrowed it because of the intolerable heat of the leather jacket. Its
distinctive character became visible when he viewed it in the June
sunshine, and he wore it as a substitute for sackcloth, since he, no
less than Cynthia, recognized that a dangerous acquaintance was
drawing to an end. So Dale's coat imposed a shield, as it were,
between the two, but the man drove with little heed to the witching
scenery that Dorset unfolded at each turn of the road, and the woman
sat distrait, almost downcast.

Mrs. Devar was smugly complacent. Difficulties that loomed large
overnight were now vague shadows. When the Mercury stopped in front of
a comfortable inn at Yeovil it was she, and not Cynthia, who suggested
a social departure.

"This seems to be the only place in the town where luncheon is
provided. You had better leave the car in charge of a stableman, and
join us, Fitzroy," she said graciously.

"Thank you, madam," said Medenham, rousing himself from a reverie, "I
prefer to remain here. The hotel people will look after my slight
wants, as I dislike the notion of anyone tampering with the engine
while I am absent."

"Is it so delicate, then?" asked Cynthia, with a smile that he hardly
understood, since he could not know how thoroughly he had routed Mrs.
Devar's theories of the previous night.

"No, far from it. But its very simplicity challenges examination, and
an inquisitive clodhopper can effect more damage in a minute than I
can repair in an hour."

His gruff tone was music in Mrs. Devar's ears. She actually sighed her
relief, but explained the lapse instantly.

"I do hope there is something nice to eat," she said. "This wonderful
air makes one dreadfully hungry. When our tour is ended, Cynthia, I
shall have to bant for months."

The fare was excellent. Under its stimulating influence Miss Vanrenen
forgot her vapors and elected for the front seat during the run to
Glastonbury. Medenham thawed, too. By chance their talk turned to
wayside flowers, and he let the Mercury creep through a high-banked
lane, all ablaze with wild roses and honeysuckle, while he pointed out
the blue field scabious, the pink and cream meadow-sweet, the
samphire, the milk-wort and the columbine, the campions in the
cornland, and the yellow vetchling that ran up the hillside towards
one of the wooded "islands" peculiar to the center of Somerset.

Cynthia listened, and, if she marveled, betrayed no hint of surprise
that a chauffeur should have such a store of the woodman's craft.
Medenham, aware only of a rapt audience of one, threw disguise to the
breeze created by the car when the pace quickened. He told of the
Glastonbury Thorn, and how it was brought to the west country by no
less a gardener than Joseph of Arimathea, and how St. Patrick was born
in the Isle of Avallon, so called because its apple-orchards bore
golden fruit, and how the very name of Glastonbury is derived from the
crystal water that hemmed the isle----

"Please let me intrude one little question," murmured the girl. "I am
very ignorant of some things. What has 'Avallon' got to do with
'apples'?"

"Ha!" cried Medenham, warming to his subject and retarding speed
again, "that opens up a wide field. In Celtic mythology Avallon is
Ynys yr Afallon, the Island of Apples. It is the Land of the Blessed,
where Morgana holds her court. Great heroes like King Arthur and Ogier
le Dane were carried there after death, and, as apples were the only
first-rate fruit known to the northern nations, a place where they
grew in luscious abundance came to be regarded as the soul-kingdom.
Merlin says that fairyland is full of apple trees----"

"I believe it is," cried Cynthia, nudging his arm and pointing to an
orchard in full bloom.

Mrs. Devar could hear little and understand less of what they were
saying; but the nudge was eloquent; her steel-blue eyes narrowed, and
she thrust her face between them.

"We mustn't dawdle on the road, Fitzroy. Bristol is still a long way
off, and we have so much to see--Glastonbury, Wells, Cheddar."

Though Cynthia was vexed by the interruption she did not show it.
Indeed, she was aware of her companion's strange reiteration of
the towns to be visited, since Mrs. Devar had already admitted a
special weakness in geography, and during the trip from Brighton to
Bournemouth was quite unable to name a town, a county, or a landmark.
But the queer thought of a moment was dispelled by sight of the ruins
of St. Dunstan's monastery appearing above a low wall. In front of the
broken arches and tottering walls grew some apple trees so old and
worn that no blossom decked their gnarled branches. Unbidden tears
glistened in the girl's eyes.

"If I lived here I would plant a new orchard," she said tremulously.
"I think Guinevere would like it, and you say she is buried with her
king in St. Joseph's Chapel."

Medenham had suddenly grown stern again. He glanced at her, and then
made great business with brakes and levers, for Mrs. Devar was still
inquisitive.

"There is a fine old Pilgrims' Inn, the George, in the main street,"
he said jerkily. "I propose to stop there; the entrance to the Abbey
is exactly opposite. In the George they will show you a room in which
Henry the Eighth slept, and I would recommend you to get a guide for
half an hour at least."

"Must we walk?" demanded Mrs. Devar plaintively.

"Yes, if you wish to see anything. But one could throw a stone over
the chief show places, they are so close together."

So Cynthia was shown the Alfred Jewel, and Celtic dice-boxes
carefully loaded for the despoiling of Roman legionaries or an
unwary Phoenician, and heard the story of the Holy Grail from the
lips of an ancient who lent credence to the legend by his venerable
appearance. Mixed up with the imposing ruins and the glory of St.
Joseph's Chapel was a visit to the butcher's at the corner of the
street, where the veteran proudly exhibited a duck with four feet. He
then called Cynthia's attention to the carved panels of the George
Hotel, and pointed out a fine window, bayed on each successive story.
She had almost forgotten the wretched duck when he mentioned a
two-headed calf which was on view at a neighboring dairy.

Mrs. Devar showed signs of interest, so Cynthia tipped the old man
hurriedly, and ran to the car.

"I shall come here--some other time," she gasped, and it thrilled her
to believe that Fitzroy understood, though he had heard no word of
quadruped fowl or bicipital monster.

At Wells Medenham pitied her. He bribed a policeman to guard the
Mercury, and when Mrs. Devar saw that more walking was expected of her
she elected to sit in the tonneau and admire the west front of the
cathedral.

"Lady Porthcawl tells me it is a masterpiece," she chirped shrilly,
"so I want to take it in at my leisure."

Once more, therefore, did Medenham allow himself a half hour of
real abandonment. He warned Cynthia that she must not endeavor to
appreciate the architecture; with the hauteur of conscious genius,
Wells refuses to allow anyone to absorb its true grandeur until it
has been seen many times and in all lights.

So he hied her to the exquisite Lady Chapel, and to the Chapter-House
Stairs, and to Peter Lightfoot's quaint old clock in the transept.
Then, by some alchemy worked on a lodgekeeper, he led her to the
gardens of the Bishop's palace, and showed her the real Glastonbury
Thorn, and even persuaded one of the swans in the moat to ring the
bell attached to the wall whereby each morning for many a year the
royal birds have obtained their breakfast.

There is no lovelier garden in England than that of Wells Palace, and
Cynthia was so rapt in it that even Medenham had to pull out his watch
and remind her of dusty roads leading to far-off Bristol.

Mrs. Devar looked so sour when they came from an inspection of one of
the seven wells to which the town owes its name that Cynthia weakened
and sat by her side. Thereupon Medenham made amends for lost time by
exceeding the speed limit along every inch of the run to Cheddar.

Of course he had to crawl through the narrow streets of the little
town, above which the bare crests of the Mendips give such slight
promise of the glorious gorge that cuts through their massiveness from
south to north. Even at the very lip of the magnificent canyon the
outlook is deceptive. Perhaps it is that the eye is caught by the
flaring advertisements of the stalactite caves, or that baser emotions
are awakened by the sight of cozy tea-gardens--of one in particular,
where a cascade tumbles headlong from the black rocks, and a
tree-shaded lawn offers rest and coolness after hours passed in the
hot sun.

Be that as it may, "tea" had a welcome sound, and Medenham, who had
lunched on bread and beer and pickles, was glad to halt at the
entrance of the inn that boasted a waterfall in its grounds.

The road was narrow, and packed with chars-à-bancs awaiting their
hordes of noisy trippers. Some of the men were tipsy, and Medenham
feared for the Mercury's paint. To the left of the hotel lay a
spacious yard that looked inviting. He backed in there when the ladies
had alighted, and ran alongside an automobile on which "Paris" and
"speed" were written in characters legible to the motorist.

A chauffeur was lounging against the stable wall and smoking.

"Hello," said Medenham affably, "what sort of car is that?"

"A 59 Du Vallon," was the answer. Then the man's face lit up with
curiosity.

"Yours is a New Mercury, isn't it?" he cried. "Was that car at
Brighton on Wednesday night?"

"Yes," growled Medenham; he knew what to expect, and his face was grim
beneath the tan.

"But you were not driving it," said the other.

"A chap named Dale was in charge then."

"Oh, is that it? You've brought two ladies here just now?"

"Yes."

"Good! My guv'nor's on the lookout for 'em. He didn't tell me so, but
he made sure they hadn't passed this way when we turned up."

"And when was that?" asked Medenham, feeling unaccountably sick at
heart.

"Soon after lunch. Ran here from Bristol. There's a bad bit of road
over the Mendips, but the rest is fine. I s'pose we'll all be hiking
back there to-night?"

"Most probably," agreed Medenham, who said least when he was most
disturbed; at that moment he could cheerfully have wrung Count Edouard
Marigny's neck.




CHAPTER V

A FLURRY ON THE MENDIPS


It is a contrariety of human nature that men devoted to venturesome
forms of sport should often be tender-hearted as children. Lord
Medenham, who had done some slaying in his time, once risked his life
to save a favorite horse from a Ganges quicksand, and his right arm
still bore the furrows plowed in it by claws that would have torn his
spaniel to pieces in a Kashmir gully had he not thrust the empty
barrels of a .450 Express rifle down the throat of an enraged bear.
In each case, a moment's delay to secure his own safety meant the
sacrifice of a friend, but safety won at such a price would have
galled him worse than the spinning of a coin with death.

Wholly apart from considerations that he was strangely unwilling
to acknowledge, even to his own heart, he now resented Marigny's
cold-blooded pursuit of an unsuspecting girl mainly because of its
unfairness. Were Cynthia Vanrenen no more to him than the hundreds of
pretty women he would meet during a brief London season he would still
have wished to rescue her from the money-hunting gang which had
marked her down as an easy prey. But he had been vouchsafed glimpses
into her white soul. That night at Brighton, and again to-day in the
cloistered depths of the cathedral at Wells, she had admitted him to
the rare intimacy of those who commune deeply in silence.

It was not that he dared yet to think of a love confessed and
reciprocated. The prince in disguise is all very well in a fairy tale;
in England of the twentieth century he is an anachronism; and Medenham
would as soon think of shearing a limb as of profiting by the chance
that threw Cynthia in his way. Of course, a less scrupulous wooer
might have devised a hundred plausible methods of revealing his
identity--was not Mrs. Devar, marriage-broker and adroit sycophant,
ready to hand and purchasable?--and there was small room for doubt
that a girl's natural vanity would be fluttered into a blaze of
romance by learning that her chauffeur was heir to an old and
well-endowed peerage. But honor forbade, nor might he dream of winning
her affections while flying false colors. True, it would not be his
fault if they did not come together again in the near future. He meant
to forestall any breach of confidence on the part of Simmonds by
writing a full explanation of events to Cynthia herself. If his
harmless escapade were presented in its proper light, their next
meeting should be fraught with laughter rather than reproaches; and
then--well, then, he might urge a timid plea that his repute as a
careful pilot during those three memorable days was no bad
recommendation for a permanency!

But now, in a flash, the entire perspective had changed. The Frenchman
and Mrs. Devar, between them, threatened to upset his best-laid plans.
It was one thing to guess the nature of the sordid compact revealed at
Brighton; it was quite another to be brought face to face with its
active development at Cheddar. The intervening hours had disintegrated
all his pet theories. In a word, the difference lay in himself--before
and after close companionship with Cynthia.

It must not be imagined that Medenham indulged in this species of
self-analysis while fetching a pail of water to replace the wastage
from the condenser. He was merely in a very bad temper, and could not
trust himself to speak until he had tended to his belovèd engine.

He determined to set doubt at rest forthwith by the simple expedient
of finding Miss Vanrenen, and seeing whether or not Marigny had
waylaid her already.

"Keep an eye on my machine for a minute," he said to the guardian of
the Du Vallon. "By the way, is Captain Devar here?" he added, since
Devar's presence might affect his own actions.

"Oh, you know _him_, do you?" cried the other. "No, he didn't come
with us. We left him at Bristol. He's a bird, the captain. Played some
johnny at billiards last night for a quid, and won. He told the
guv'nor this morning that there is another game fixed for to-day, and
you ought to have seen him wink. It's long odds again' the Bristol
gent, or I'm very much mistaken. Yes, I'll keep any amatoor paws off
your car, and off my own as well, you bet."

To pass from the stable yard to the garden it was not necessary to
enter the hotel. A short path, shaded by trellis-laden creepers and
climbing roses, led to a rustic bridge over the stream. When Medenham
had gone halfway he saw the two women sitting with Marigny at a table
placed well apart from other groups of tea-drinkers. They were talking
animatedly, the Count smiling and profuse of gesture, while Cynthia
listened with interest to what was seemingly a convincing statement
of the fortunate hazard that led to his appearance at Cheddar. The
Frenchman was too skilled a stalker of shy game to pretend a second
time that the meeting was accidental.

Mrs. Devar's shrill accents traveled clearly across the lawn.

"Just fancy that ... finding James at Bath, and persuading him to come
to Bristol on the chance that we might all dine together to-night!
Naughty boy he is--why didn't he run out here in your car?"

Count Edouard said something.

"Business!" she cackled, "I am glad to hear of it. James is too much
of a gad-about to earn money, but people are always asking him to
their houses. He is a _dear_ fellow. I am sure you will like him,
Cynthia."

Medenham had heard enough. He noted that the table was gay with cut
flowers, and a neat waitress had evidently been detailed by the
management to look after these distinguished guests; Marigny's stage
setting for his first decisive move was undoubtedly well contrived. It
was delightfully pastoral--a charming bit of rural England--and, as
such, eminently calculated to impress an American visitor.

Cynthia poured out a cup of tea, heaped a plate with cakes and bread
and butter, and gave some instructions to the waitress. Medenham knew
what that meant. He hurried back by the way he had come, and found
that Marigny's chauffeur had lifted the bonnet off the Mercury.

"More I see of this engine the more I like it--What's your h.p.?"
asked the man, who clearly regarded the Mercury's driver as a brother
in the craft.

"38."

"Looks a sixty, every inch. I wonder if you could hold my car at
Brooklands?"

"Perhaps not, but I may give you some dust to swallow over the
Mendips."

The chauffeur grinned.

"Of course you'd say that, but it all depends on what the guv'nor
means to do. He's a dare-devil at the wheel, I can tell you, an'
never says a word to me when I let things rip. But he's up to some
game to-day. He's fair crazy about that girl you have in tow--what's
her name? Vanrenen, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Medenham, replacing the hood after a critical glance at
the wires, though he hardly thought that this sturdy mechanic would
play any tricks on him.

"Which of you men is called Fitzroy?" demanded a serving-maid,
carrying a tray.

"I," said Medenham.

"Here, Miss," broke in the other, "my name's Smith, plain Smith, but I
can do with a sup o' tea as well as anybody."

"Ask Miss Vanrenen to give you another cup for Count Marigny's
chauffeur," said Medenham to the girl.

"Oh, he's a count, is he?" said the waitress saucily. "My, isn't he
mashed on the young one?"

"Who wouldn't be?" declared Smith. "She's the sort of girl a fellow
'ud leave home for."

"Fine feathers go a long way. There's as good as her in the world,"
came the retort, not without a favorable glance at Medenham.

"Meanwhile the tea is getting cold," said he.

"Dear me, you needn't hurry. Her ma is goin' to write half-a-dozen
picture postcards. But what a voice! The old girl drowns the
waterfall."

The waitress flounced off. She was pretty, and no wandering chauffeur
had ever before turned aside the arrows of her bright eyes so
heedlessly.

"Then you have seen Miss Vanrenen?" inquired Medenham, sipping his
tea.

"Ra-ther!" said Smith. "Saw her in Paris, at the Ritz, when my people
sent me over there to learn the mechanism of this car. The Count was
always hanging about, and I thought he wanted the old man to buy a Du
Vallon, but it's all Lombard Street to a china orange that he was
after the daughter the whole time. I don't blame him. She's a regular
daisy. But you ought to know best. How do _you_ get on with her?"

"Capitally."

"Why did Dale and you swop jobs?"

"Oh, a mere matter of arrangement," said Medenham, who realized that
Smith would blurt out every item of information that he possessed if
allowed to talk.

"He's a corker, is Dale," mused the other. "I can do with a pint or
two meself when the day's work is finished an' the car safely locked
up for the night. But that Dale! he's a walkin' beer-barrel. Lord love
a duck! what a soakin' he gev' me in Brighton. Some lah-di-dah toff
swaggered into the garage that evenin', and handed Dale a fiver--five
golden quidlets, if you please--which my nibs had won on a horse at
Epsom. I must say, though, Dale did the thing handsome--quart bottles
o' Bass opened every ten minutes. Thank you, my dear"--this to the
waitress, "next to beer give me tea. Now, my boss, bein' a Frenchy,
won't touch eether--wine an' corfee are his specials."

"He seemed to be enjoying his tea when I caught sight of him in the
garden a little while ago," said Medenham.

"That's his artfulness, my boy. You wait a bit. You'll see something
before you reach Bristol to-night; anyway, you'll hear something,
which amounts to pretty much the same in the end."

"They're just off to the caves," put in the girl.

"While Mrs. Devar writes her postcards, I suppose?" said Medenham
innocently.

"What! Is that the old party with the hair? I thought she was the
young lady's mother. She's gone with them. She looks that sort of
meddler--not half. Two's company an' three's none is my motto, cave
or no cave."

She tried her most bewitching smile on Medenham this time. It was a
novel experience to be the recipient of a serving-maid's marked favor,
and it embarrassed him. Smith, his mouth full of currant bun,
spluttered with laughter.

"A fair offer," he cried. "You two dodge outside and see which cave
the aristocracy chooses. Then you can take a turn round the other one.
I'll watch the cars all right."

The girl suddenly blushed and looked demure. A sweet voice said
quietly:

"We shall remain here half an hour or more, Fitzroy. I thought I
would tell you in case you wished to smoke--or occupy your time in any
other way."

The pause was eloquent: Cynthia had heard.

"Thank you, Miss Vanrenen," he said, affecting to glance at his watch.

He felt thoroughly nonplussed. She would surely think he had been
flirting with this rosy-cheeked servant, and he might never have an
opportunity of telling her that his sole reason for encouraging the
conversation lay in his anxiety to learn as much as possible about
Marigny and his associates.

"My, ain't she smart!" said the girl when Cynthia had gone.

Medenham put his hand in his pocket and gave her half-a-crown.

"They have forgotten to tip you, Gertie," he said. Without heeding a
stare of astonishment strongly tinctured with indignation, he stooped
in unnecessary scrutiny of the Mercury's tires. The minx tossed her
head.

"Some folks are as grand as their missuses," she remarked, and went
back to her garden.

But Smith looked puzzled. Medenham, no good actor at any time, had
dropped too quickly the air of camaraderie which had been a successful
passport hitherto. His voice, his manner, the courtly insolence of
the maid's dismissal, evoked vague memories in Smith's mind. The
square-shouldered, soldierly figure did not quite fit into the
picture, but he seemed to hear that same authoritative voice
speaking to Dale in the Brighton garage.

 [Illustration: "You may occupy your time in any way you wish,
 Fitzroy," said Cynthia.                     _Page 102_]

The conceit was absurd, of course. Chauffeurs do not swagger through
the world dressing for dinner each night and distributing gold in
their leisure moments. But Smith's bump of inquisitiveness was well
developed, as the phrenologists say, and he was already impressed by
the fact that no firm could afford to send out for hire a car like
Medenham's.

"Funny thing," he said at last. "I seem to have met you somewhere or
other. Who do you work for?"

"Myself."

Medenham caught the note of bewilderment, and was warned. He
straightened himself with a smile, though it cost him an effort to
look cheerful.

"Have a cigarette?" he said.

"Don't mind if I do. Thanks." Then, after a pause, and some puffing
and tasting: "Sorry, old man, but this baccy ain't my sort. It tastes
queer. What is it? Flor de Cabbagio? Here, take one of mine!"

Medenham, in chastened mood, accepted a "five a penny" cigarette, and
saw Smith throw away the exquisite brand that Sevastopolo, of Bond
Street, supplied to those customers only who knew the price paid by
connoisseurs for the leaf grown on one small hillside above the
sun-steeped bay of Salonika.

"Yes," he agreed, bravely poisoning the helpless atmosphere, "this is
better suited to the occasion."

"A bit of all right, eh? I can't stand the Count's cigarettes
eether--French rubbish, you know. An' the money they run into--well,
there!"

"But if he is a rich man----"

"Rich!" Smith exploded with merriment. "If he had what he owes he
might worry along for a year or so, but, you mark my words, if he
doesn't--Well, it's no business of mine, only just keep your eyes
open. You're going through with this tour?"

"I--believe so," said Medenham slowly--and thus he took the great
resolution which till that moment was dim in his mind.

"In that case we'll be having a jaw some other time, and then, mebbe,
we'll both be older an' wiser."

Notwithstanding the community of taste established by Smith's
weeds, the man was still furtively racking his brains to account for
certain discrepancies in his new acquaintance's bearing and address.
Medenham's hands, for instance, were too well kept. His boots were of
too good a quality. His reindeer driving gloves, discarded and lying
on the front seat, were far too costly. The disreputable linen coat
might hide many details, but not these. Every now and then Smith
wanted to say "sir," and he wondered why.

Medenham was sure that at the back of Smith's head lay some scheme,
some arranged trick, some artifice of intrigue that would find
its opportunity between Cheddar and Bristol. The distance was not
great--perhaps eighteen miles--by a fairly direct second-class road,
and on this fine June evening it was still safe to count on three long
hours of daylight. It was doubly irritating, therefore, to think
that by his own lack of diplomacy he had almost forfeited Smith's
confidence. Twice had the man been on the very brink of revelation,
for he was one of those happy-go-lucky beings not fitted for the
safeguarding of secrets, yet on each occasion his tongue faltered in
subconscious knowledge that he was about to betray his master's
affairs.

Feeling that Dale would have managed this part of the day's adventures
far better than himself, Medenham took his seat and touched the
switch.

"We have to make Bristol by seven o'clock, so I shall pull out in
front; I suppose Count Marigny will give the ladies the road?" he
remarked casually.

Smith was listening to the engine.

"Runs like a watch, don't it?" was his admiring cry.

"And almost as quietly, so you heard what I said."

"Oh, I hear lots, but I reckon it a good plan to keep my mouth shut,"
grinned the other.

"Exactly what you have failed to do," thought Medenham, though he
nodded pleasantly, and, with a "So long!" passed out of the yard.
Smith went to the exit and looked after him. The man's face wore a
good-humored sneer. It was as though he said:

"You wait a bit, my dandy shuffer--you ain't through with his
Countship yet--not by any manner o' means."

And Medenham did wait, till nearly seven o'clock. He saw Cynthia and
her companions come out of Gough's Cave and enter Cox's. These fairy
grottoes of nature's own contriving were well worthy of close
inspection, he knew. Nowhere else in the world can stalactites that
droop from the roof, stalagmites that spring from the floor, be seen
in such perfection of form and tint. But he fretted and fumed because
Cynthia was immured too long in their ice-cold recesses, and when, at
last, she reappeared from the second cavern and halted near a stall to
purchase some curios, impatience mastered him, and he brought the car
slowly on until she turned and looked at him.

He raised his cap.

"The gorge is the finest thing in Cheddar, Miss Vanrenen," he said.
"You ought to see it while the light is strong."

"We are going now," she answered coldly. "Monsieur Marigny will take
me to Bristol, and you will follow with Mrs. Devar."

He did not flinch from her steadfast gaze, though those blue eyes of
hers seemed definitely to forbid any expression of opinion. Yet there
was a challenge in them, too, and he accepted it meekly.

"I was hoping that I might have the pleasure of driving you this
evening," he said. "The run through the pass is very interesting, and
I know every inch of it."

He fancied that she was conscious of some mistake, and eager to atone
if in the wrong.

She hesitated, yielded almost, but Mrs. Devar broke in angrily:

"We have decided differently, Fitzroy. I have some few postcards to
dispatch, and Count Marigny has kindly promised to run slowly up the
hill until we overtake him."

"Yes, you ought to have waited in the yard of the inn for orders,"
said the ever-smiling Marigny. "My car can hardly pass yours in this
narrow road. Back a bit to one side, there's a good fellow, and, when
we have gone, pull up to the door. Come, Miss Vanrenen. I am fierce to
show you the paces of a Du Vallon."

The concluding sentences were in French, but Count Edouard spoke
idiomatic English fluently and with a rather fascinating accent.

Cynthia, slightly ruffled by her own singular lack of purpose, made
no further demur. The three walked off down the hill, and Medenham
could only obey in a chill rage that, were Marigny able to gauge its
intensity, might have given him "furiously to think."

In a few minutes the Du Vallon scurried by. Smith was driving, and
there was a curious smirk on his red face as he glanced at Medenham.
Cynthia sat in the tonneau with the Frenchman, who drew her attention
to the limestone cliffs in such wise that she did not even see the
Mercury as she passed.

Medenham muttered something under his breath, and reversed slowly back
to the inn. He consulted his watch.

"I'll give the postcard writer ten minutes--then I shall jar her
nerves badly," he promised himself.

Those minutes were slow-footed, but at last he closed the watch with a
snap. He called to a waitress visible at the end of a long passage.
The girl happened to be his friend of tea-time.

"Would you like to earn another half crown?" he asked.

She had wit enough to grasp essentials, and it was abundantly clear
that this man was not her lawful quarry.

"Yes--sir," she said.

"Take it, then, and tell the elderly lady belonging to my party--she
is somewhere inside--that Fitzroy says he cannot wait any longer. Use
those exact words--and be quick!"

The girl vanished. An irate yet dignified Mrs. Devar came out.

"Do I understand----" she began wrathfully.

"I hope so, madam. Unless you get in at once I intend going to
Bristol, or elsewhere, without you."

"Or elsewhere?" she gasped, though some of her high color fled under
his cold glance.

"Precisely. I do not intend to abandon Miss Vanrenen."

"How dare you speak to me in this manner, you vulgar person?"

For answer Medenham set the engine going.

"I said 'At once,'" he replied, and looked Mrs. Devar squarely in the
eyes.

She had her fair share of that wisdom of the serpent which is
indispensable to evildoers, and had learnt early in life that whereas
many men say they will do that which they really will not do if put to
the test, other men, rare but dominant, can be trusted to make good
their words no matter what the cost. So she accepted the unavoidable;
quivering with indignation, she entered the car.

"Drive me to the post-office," she said, with as much of acid repose
as she could muster to her aid.

Medenham seemed to be suddenly afflicted with deafness. After
negotiating a line of vehicles, the Mercury leaped past the caves of
Gough and Cox as though the drip of lime-laden water within those
amazing depths were reeling off centuries in a frenzy of haste instead
of measuring time so slowly that no appreciable change has been noted
in the tiniest stalactite during fifty years. Mrs. Devar then grew
genuinely alarmed, since even a designing woman may be a timid one.
She bore with the pace until the car seemed to be on the verge of
rushing full tilt against a jutting rock. She could endure the strain
no longer, but stood up and screamed.

Medenham slackened speed. When the curving road opened sufficiently to
show a clear furlong ahead, he turned and spoke to the limp,
shrieking creature clinging to the back of his seat.

"You are not in the slightest danger," he assured her, "but if you
wish it I will drop you here. The village is barely half a mile away.
Otherwise, should you decide to remain, you must put up with a rapid
speed."

"But why, why?" she almost wailed. "Have you gone mad, to drive like
that?"

"Again I pledge my word that there is no risk. I mean to overtake Miss
Vanrenen before the light fails--that is all."

"Your conduct is positively outrageous," she gasped.

"Please yourself, madam. Do you go, or stay?"

She collapsed into the comfortable upholstery with a gesture of
impotent despair. Medenham was sure she would not dare to leave him.
What wretched project she and Marigny had concocted he knew not, but
its successful outcome evidently depended on Mrs. Devar's safe arrival
in Bristol. Moreover, it was a paramount condition that he should be
delayed at Cheddar, and his chief interest lay in defeating that part
of the programme. Without another word, he released the brakes, and
the car sped onward.

Now they were plunging into a magnificent defile shadowed by sheer
cliffs that on the eastern side rose to a height of five hundred feet.
Fluttering rock pigeons circled far up in the azure riband that
spanned the opposing precipices. From many a towering pinnacle,
carved by the ages into fantastic imageries of a castle, a pulpit,
a lion, or a lance, came the loud, clear calling of innumerable
jack-daws. It was dark and gloomy, most terrifying to Mrs. Devar,
down there on the twining road where the car boomed ever on like
some relentless monster rushing from its lair. But the Cheddar
gorge, though majestic and awe-inspiring, is not of great extent.
Soon the valley widened, the road took longer sweeps to round each
frowning buttress, and at last emerged, with a quality of inanimate
breathlessness, on to the bleak and desolate tableland of the Mendips.

At this point, had Cynthia been there, Medenham would have stopped
for a while, so that she might admire the far-flung panorama of the
"island valley of Avallon" that stretched below the ravine. Out of
the green pastures in the middle distance rose the ruined towers of
Glastonbury. The purple and gold of Sedgemoor, relieved by the soft
outlines of the Polden hills, the grim summits of Taunton Dean and the
Blackdown range, the wooded Quantocks dipping to the Severn, and the
giant mass of Exmoor bounding the far horizon,--these great splashes
of color, softened and blended by belts of farmland and the blue smoke
of clustering hamlets, formed a picture that not even Britain's
storehouse of natural beauty can match too often to sate the eyes of
those who love a charming landscape.

He had, as it were, jealously guarded this vista all day, said not a
word of it, even when Cynthia and he discussed the route, so that it
might come at last in one supreme moment of revelation. And now that
it was here, Cynthia was hidden somewhere in the gray distance, and
Medenham was frowning at a flying strip of white road, with his every
faculty intent on exacting the last ounce of power from the superb
machine he controlled.

The miles rolled beneath, yet there was no token of the Du Vallon that
was to "run slowly up the hill" until overtaken by the industrious
writer of postcards. At the utmost, the French car was given some
twelve or thirteen minutes' start, which meant seven or eight miles
to a high-powered automobile urged forward with the determination
Medenham himself was displaying. Marigny's chauffeur, therefore, must
have dashed through that Titanic cleft in the limestone at a speed
utterly incompatible with his employer's excuse of sightseeing.
Of course, it would be an easy matter for Marigny to enlist Miss
Vanrenen's sympathies in the effort of a first-rate engine to conquer
the adverse gradient. She would hardly realize the rate of progress,
and, from where she was seated, the speed indicator would be invisible
unless she leaned forward for the express purpose of reading it.
Medenham was sure that the Mercury would catch the Du Vallon long
before Bristol was reached, but when the last ample fold of the bleak
plateau spread itself in front, and his hunter's eyes could discern no
cloud of dust lingering in the still air where the road dipped over
the horizon, he began to doubt, to question, to solve grotesque
problems that were discarded ere they had well taken shape.

Oddly enough, there came no more expostulation from Mrs. Devar. Like
the majority of nervous people, she was quelled by the need of placing
complete trust in one who understood his work. While Medenham was
still searching the sky-line for signs of the vanished car, she did
show some interest in his quest. He felt, since he could not see, that
she half rose and looked over his head, bent low behind the partial
shelter afforded by a glass screen. Then she settled back in the seat,
and drew a rug comfortably around her knees. For some reason, she was
strangely content.

The incident supplied food for active thought. So she felt safe! That
which she dreaded as the result of a too strenuous pursuit could not
now happen! Then what was it? Medenham swept aside the fantasy that
Mrs. Devar knew the country well enough to be able to say precisely
when and where she might be sure of his failure to snatch Cynthia from
that hidden evil the nature of which he could only guess at. Her world
was the artificial one of hotels, and shops, and numbered streets--in
the real world, of which the lonely wastes of the Mendips provided no
meager sample, she was a profound ignoramus, a fat little automaton
equipped with atrophied senses. But she blundered badly in composing
herself so cozily for the remainder of the run to Bristol. Medenham
had dwelt many months at a time in lands where just such simple
indications of mood on the part of man or beast had meant to him all
the difference between life and death. So now, if ever, he became
doubly alert; his eyes were strained, eager, peering; his body still
as the wild creatures which he knew to be skulking unseen behind many
a rock and grass tuft passed on the way.

This desolate land, given over to stones interspersed with patches of
wiry grass on which browsed some hardy sheep, resembled a disturbed
ocean suddenly made solid. It was not level, but ran in long, almost
regular undulations. In the trough between two of these rounded ridges
the road bifurcated, the way to Bristol trending to the left, and a
less important thoroughfare glancing off to the right.

There was no sign-post, but a child could scarce have erred if asked
to choose the track that led to a big town. Medenham, having consulted
the map earlier in the day, swung to the left without hesitation. The
car literally flew up the next incline, and the dark lines of trees
and hedges in the distance proved that tilled land was being neared.
Now he was absolutely sure that he had managed, somehow, to miss the
Du Vallon--unless, indeed, its redoubtable mechanism was of a caliber
he had not yet come across in the highways and byways of Europe.

With him, to decide was to act. The Mercury slowed up so promptly that
Mrs. Devar became alarmed again.

"What is it?--a tire gone?" she cried.

"No, I am on the wrong road--that is all."

"But there is no other. That turning we passed was a mere lane."

The car stopped where his watchful glance noted a carpet of sand left
by the last shower of rain. He sprang out and examined the marks of
recent traffic. Marigny's vehicle carried non-skid covers with studs
arranged in peculiar groups, and their imprint was plain to be seen.
But they had followed that road once only. It was impossible to
determine off-hand whether they had come or gone, but, if they came
from Bristol, then most certainly they had not returned.

Medenham took nothing for granted. Dusk was advancing, and he must
make no mistake at this stage. He ran the Mercury slowly ahead, not
taking his gaze off the telltale signs. At last he found what he was
looking for. The broad scars left by a heavy cart crossed the studs,
and had crossed after the passage of the car. Thus he eliminated the
vagaries of chance. Marigny had _not_ taken the road to Bristol--he
_must_ be on the other one--since no cart was in sight.

Medenham backed and turned. Mrs. Devar, of course, grew agitated.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

Medenham resolved to end this farce of pretense, else he would not be
answerable for the manner of his speech.

"I mean to find Miss Vanrenen," he said. "Pray let that suffice for
the hour. Any further explanation you may require can be given at
Bristol and in her presence."

Mrs. Devar began to sob. He heard her, and of all things that he hated
it was to become the cause of a woman's tears. But his lips closed in
a thin seam, and he drove fast to the fork in the roads. Another halt
here, and the briefest scrutiny showed that his judgment had not
erred. The Du Vallon had passed this point twice. If it came from
Bristol in the first instance it had gone now to some unfamiliar
wilderness that skirted the whole northeastern slopes of the Mendips.

He leaped back to the driving seat, and Mrs. Devar made one more
despairing effort to regain control of a situation that had slipped
from her grasp nearly an hour ago.

"Please do be sensible, Fitzroy!" she almost screamed. "Even if he
_has_ made a mistake in a turning, Count Marigny will take every care
of Miss Vanrenen----"

It was useless. She was appealing to a man of stone, and, indeed,
Medenham could not pay heed to her then in any circumstances, for the
road surface quickly became very rough, and it needed all his skill to
guide his highly-strung car over its inequalities without inflicting
an injury that might prove disastrous.

His only consolation was provided by the knowledge that the risk to a
stout Mercury was as naught compared with the tortures endured by a
French-built racer, with its long wheel-base and low chassis. After a
couple of miles of semi-miraculous advance his respect for Smith's
capability as a driver increased literally by leaps and bounds.

But the end was nearer than he thought. On reaching the top of one
of those seemingly interminable land-waves, he saw a blurred object
in the hollow. Soon he distinguished Cynthia's fawn-colored dust
cloak, and his heart throbbed exultantly when the girl fluttered a
handkerchief to show that she, too, had seen.

Mrs. Devar rose and clutched the back of the seat behind him.

"I apologize, Fitzroy," she piped tremulously. "You were right. They
have lost their way and met with some accident. How glad I am that I
did not insist on your making straight for Bristol!"

Her unparalleled impudence won his admiration. Such a woman, he
thought, was worthy of a better fate than that which put her in the
position of a bought intriguer. But Cynthia was near, waving her hands
gleefully, and executing a nymph-like thanksgiving dance on a strip of
turf by the roadside, so Medenham's views of Mrs. Devar's previous
actions were tempered by conditions extraordinarily favorable to her
at the moment.

She seemed to be aware instinctively of the change in his sentiments
wrought by sight of Cynthia. It was in quite a friendly tone that she
cried:

"Count Edouard is there; but where is his man?... Something serious
must have happened, and the chauffeur has been sent to obtain help....
Oh, how lucky we hurried, and how clever of you to find out which way
the car went!"




CHAPTER VI

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S VAGARIES


Cynthia, notwithstanding that spirited _pas seul_, was rather pale
when Medenham stopped the car close beside her. She had been on
tenterhooks during the past quarter of an hour--there were silent
moments when she measured her own slim figure against the natty
Count's in half-formed resolution to take to her heels along the
Cheddar Road.

At first, she had enjoyed the run greatly. Although Dale spoke of
Smith as a mechanic, the man was a first-rate driver, and he spun the
Du Vallon along at its best speed. But the change from good macadam
to none soon made itself felt, and Cynthia was more troubled than she
cared to show when the French flier came to a standstill after panting
and jolting alarmingly among the ruts. Marigny's excited questions
evoked only unintelligible grunts from Smith; for all that, the
irritating truth could not be withheld--the petrol tank was empty; not
only had the chauffeur forgotten to fill it that morning, but, by some
strange mischance, the supply usually held in reserve had been left at
Bristol!

The Frenchman was very angry with Smith, and Smith was humbly
apologetic. The pair must have acted convincingly, because each knew
to a nicety how soon a gallon of petrol would vaporize in the Du
Vallon's six cylinders. Having taken the precaution to measure that
exact quantity into the tank before leaving Cheddar, they were
prepared for a breakdown at any point within a few hundred yards of
the precise locality where it occurred.

Cynthia, being generous-minded, tried to make little of the mishap. By
taking that line she strove to reassure herself.

"Fitzroy is always prepared for emergencies," she said. "He will
soon catch up with us. But what a road! I didn't really notice it
before. Surely this cannot be the only highway between Bristol and
Cheddar?--and in England, too, where the roads are so perfect!"

"There are two roads, but this is the nearest one," explained the
glib-tongued Count, seemingly much relieved by the prospect of
Fitzroy's early arrival. "You don't deserve to be pulled out of a
difficulty so promptly, Smith," he went on, eying the chauffeur
sternly.

"There's a village not very far ahead, sir," said the abashed Smith.

"Oh, never mind! We must wait for Miss Vanrenen's car."

"Wait?" inquired Cynthia. "What else can we do?"

"I take it he meant to walk to some village, and bring a stock of
spirit."

"Oh, dear! I hope no such thing will be necessary."

From that half hint of latent and highly disagreeable developments
dated Cynthia's uneasiness. She accepted Marigny's suggestion that
they should stroll to the top of the slight hill just descended,
whence they would be able to watch their rescuer's approach from a
considerable distance--she even remembered to tell him to smoke--but
she answered his lively sallies at random, and agreed unreservedly
with his voluble self-reproach.

The obvious disuse of the road, a mere lane providing access to sheep
inclosures on the hills, caused her no small perplexity, though she
saw fit not to add to her companion's distress by commenting on it. In
any other circumstances she would have been genuinely alarmed, but her
well-established acquaintanceship with the Count, together with the
apparently certain fact that Fitzroy and Mrs. Devar were coming nearer
each second, forbade the tremors that any similar accident must have
evoked if, say, they were marooned on some remote mountain range of
the continent, and no friendly car was speeding to their aid.

The two halted on the rising ground, and one of them, at least, gazed
anxiously into the purple shadows now mellowing the gray monotony of
the plateau. The point where the Du Vallon left the main road was
invisible from where they stood. Marigny had laid his plans with
skill, so his humorous treatment of their plight was not marred by any
lurking fear of the Mercury's unwelcome appearance.

"What a terrible collapse this would be if I were running away with
you, Miss Cynthia," he said slyly. "Let us imagine a priest waiting in
some ancient castle ten miles away, and an irate father, or a pair of
them, starting from Cheddar in hot pursuit."

"My imagination fails me there, Monsieur Marigny," she replied, and
the shade of emphasis on his surname showed that she was fully aware
of the boundary crossed by the "Miss Cynthia," an advance which
surprised her more than the Frenchman counted on. "At present I am
wholly absorbed in a vain effort to picture an automobile somewhere
down there in the gathering mists; still, it _must_ arrive soon."

Then Marigny put forth a tentative claw.

"I hate to tell you," he said, "_mais il faut marcher quand le diable
est aux trousses_.[A] I am unwillingly forced to believe that your
chauffeur has taken the other road."

[Footnote A: "But needs must when the devil drives."]

"The other road!" wailed Cynthia in sudden and most poignant
foreboding. It was then that she first began to estimate her running
powers.

"Yes, there are two, you know. The second one is not so direct----"

"If you think that, your man had better go at once to the village he
spoke of. Is it certain that he will obtain petrol there?"

"Almost certain."

"Really, Monsieur Marigny, I fail to understand you. Why should you
express a doubt? He appeared to be confident enough five minutes ago.
He was ready to start until we prevented him."

That the girl should yield to slight panic was precisely what Count
Edouard desired. True, Cynthia's sparkling eyes and firm lips were
eloquent of keen annoyance rather than fear, but Marigny was an adept
in reading the danger signals of beauty in distress, and he saw in
these symptoms the heralds of tears and fright. His experience did not
lead him far astray, but he had not allowed for racial difference
between the Latin and the Anglo-Saxon. Cynthia might weep, she might
even attempt to run, but in the last resource she would face him with
dauntless courage.

"I assure you I would not have had this thing happen on any account,"
he said in a voice that vibrated with sympathy. "Indeed, I pray your
pity in my own behalf, Miss Vanrenen. After all, it is I who suffer
the agony of failure when I meant only to please. You will reach
Bristol this evening, a little late, perhaps, but quite safely, and I
hope that you will laugh then at the predicament which now looks so
ill-starred."

His seeming sincerity appeased her to some extent. In rapid swing back
to the commonplace, she affected to laugh.

"It is not so serious, after all," she said, with more calmness than
she felt. "Just for a moment you threw me off the rails by your
lawyer-like vagueness."

Drawing a little apart, she looked steadily back along the deserted
road.

"I see nothing of my car," she murmured at last. "It will soon be
dusk. We must take no more chances. Please send for that benzine right
away."

Smith was dispatched forthwith on what he knew to be a fool's errand,
since both he and Marigny were practically sure of their ground. The
nearest petrol was to be found at Langford, two miles along the
Bristol road from the fork, and four miles in the opposite direction
to that taken by Smith, who, when he returned empty-handed an hour
later, must make another long journey to Langford. The Du Vallon was
now anchored immovably until eleven o'clock, and it was well that the
girl could not realize the true nature of the ordeal before her, or
events might have taken an awkward twist.

The Frenchman meant no real harm by his rascally scheme, for Cynthia
Vanrenen, daughter of a well-known American citizen, was not to be
wooed and won in the fashion that commended itself to unscrupulous
lovers in by-gone days. Yet his design blended subtlety and daring in
a way that was worthy of ancestors who had ruffled it at Versailles
with the cavaliers of old France. He trusted implicitly to the effect
of a somewhat exciting adventure on the susceptible feminine heart.
The phantom of distrust would soon vanish. She would yield to the
spell of a night scented with the breath of summer, languorous with
soft zephyrs, a night when the spirit of romance itself would
emparadise the lonely waste, and a belated moon, "like to a silver bow
new-bent in heaven," would lend its glamor to a sky already spangled
with glowing sapphires.

In such a night, all things were possible.

                           In such a night
     Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
     Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love
     To come again to Carthage.

Marigny had indeed arranged a situation worthy of his nurturing among
the decadents of Paris. He believed that in these surroundings an
impressionable girl would admit him to a degree of intimacy not to be
attained by many days of prosaic meetings. At the right moment, when
his well-bribed servant was gone to Langford, he would remember a
bottle of wine and some sandwiches stored in the car that morning to
provide the luncheon that he might not obtain at a wayside inn.
Cynthia and he would make merry over the feast. The magnetism that had
never yet failed him in affairs of the heart would surely prove
potent now at this real crisis in his life. Marriage to a rich woman
could alone snatch him from the social abyss, and the prospect became
doubly alluring when it took the guise of Cynthia. He would restore
her to a disconsolate chaperon some time before midnight, and he was
cynic enough to admit that if he had not then succeeded in winning her
esteem by his chivalry, his unobtrusive tenderness, his devoted
attentions--above all, by his flow of interesting talk and well-turned
epigram--the fault would be his own, and not attributable to adverse
conditions.

It was not surprising, therefore, that he failed to choke back the
curse quick risen to his lips when the throb of the Mercury's engine
came over the crest of the hill. Never was mailed dragon more terrible
to the beholder, even in the days of knight-errantry. In an instant
his well-conceived project had gone by the board. He saw himself
discredited, suspected, a skulking plotter driven into the open, a
self-confessed trickster utterly at the mercy of some haphazard
question that would lay bare his pretenses and cover his counterfeit
rhapsody with ridicule.

If Cynthia had heard, and hearing understood, it is possible that a
great many remarkable incidents then in embryo would have passed into
the mists of what might have been. For instance, she would not have
deigned to notice Count Edouard Marigny's further existence. The next
time she met him he would fill a place in the landscape comparable to
that occupied by a migratory beetle. But her heart was leaping for
joy, and her cry of thankfulness quite drowned in her ears the
Frenchman's furious oath.

Mrs. Devar, having had time to gather her wits, made a gallant attempt
to retrieve her fellow-conspirator's shattered fortunes.

"My dearest Cynthia," she cried effusively, "do say you are not hurt!"

"Not a bit," was the cheerful answer. "It is not I, but the car, that
is out of commission. Didn't you see me do the Salomé act when you
were thrown on the screen?"

"Ah! the car has broken down. I do not wonder--this fearful road----"

"The road seems to have strayed out of Colorado, but that isn't the
trouble. We are short of petrol. Please give some to Monsieur Marigny,
Fitzroy. Then we can hurry to Bristol, and the Count must pick up his
chauffeur on the way."

Without more ado, she seated herself by Mrs. Devar's side, and Marigny
realized that he had been robbed of a golden opportunity. No
persuasion would bring Cynthia back into the Du Vallon that evening;
it would need the exercise of all his subtle tact to induce her to
re-enter it at any time in the near future.

He strove to appear at his ease, even essayed a few words of
congratulation on the happy chance that brought the Mercury to their
relief, but the imperious young lady cut short his limping phrases.

"Oh, don't let us waste these precious minutes," she protested. "It
will be quite dark soon, and if there is much more of this wretched
track----"

Medenham broke in at that. Mrs. Devar's change of front had caused him
some grim amusement, but the discovery of Marigny's artifice roused
his wrath again. It was high time that Cynthia should be enlightened,
partly at least, as to the true nature of the "accident" that had
befallen her; he had already solved the riddle of Smith's
disappearance.

"The road to Bristol lies behind you, Miss Vanrenen," he said.

"One of the roads," cried the Frenchman.

"No, the only road," persisted Medenham. "We return to it some two
miles in the rear. Had you followed your present path much farther you
could not possibly have reached Bristol to-night."

"But there is a village quite near. My chauffeur has gone there for
petrol. Someone would have told us of our mistake."

"There is no petrol to be bought at Blagdon, which is a mere hamlet on
the downs. Anyhow, here are two gallons--ample for your needs--but if
your man is walking to Blagdon you will be compelled to wait till he
returns, Monsieur Marigny."

Though Medenham did not endeavor to check the contemptuous note that
crept into his voice, he certainly ought not to have uttered those two
concluding words. Had he ransacked his ample vocabulary of the French
language he could scarcely have hit upon another set of syllables
offering similar difficulties to the foreigner. It was quite evident
that his accurate pronunciation startled the accomplices. Each arrived
at the same conclusion, though by different channels; this man was no
mere chauffeur, and the fact rendered his marked hostility all the
more significant.

Nevertheless, for the moment, Marigny concealed his uneasiness: by a
display of good humor he hoped to gloss over the palpable absurdity of
his earlier statements to Cynthia.

"I seem to have bungled this business very badly," he said airily.
"Please don't be too hard on me. I shall make the _amende_ when I see
you in Bristol. _Au revoir, chères dames!_ Tell them to keep me some
dinner. I may not be so very far behind, since you ladies will take
some time over your toilette, and I shall--what do you call it--scorch
like mad after I have found that careless scoundrel, Smith."

Cynthia had suddenly grown dumb, so Mrs. Devar tried once more to
relax the tension.

"Do be careful, Count Edouard," she cried; "this piece of road is
dreadfully dangerous, and, when all is said and done, another half
hour is now of no great consequence."

"If your chauffeur has really gone to Blagdon, he will not be back
under an hour at least," broke in Medenham's disdainful voice. "Unless
you wish to wreck your car you will not attempt to follow him."

With that he bent over the head lamps, and their radiance fell
unexpectedly on Marigny's scowling face, since the discomfited
adventurer could no longer pretend to ignore the Englishman's menace.
Still, he was powerless. Though quivering with anger and balked
desire, he dared not provoke a scene in Cynthia's presence, and her
continued silence already warned him that she was bewildered if not
actually suspicious. He forced a laugh.

"Explanations are like swamps," he said. "The farther you plunge into
them the deeper you sink. So, good-bye! To please you, Mrs. Devar, I
shall crawl. As for Miss Vanrenen, I see that she does not care what
becomes of me."

Cynthia weakened a little at that. Certainly she wondered why her
model chauffeur chose to express his opinions so bluntly, while
Marigny's unwillingness to take offense was admirable.

"Is there no better plan?" she asked quickly, for Medenham had started
the engine, and his hand was on the reversing lever.

"For what?" he demanded.

"For extricating my friend from his difficulty?"

"If he likes to come with us, he can leave his car here all night, and
return for it to-morrow."

"Perhaps----"

"Please do not trouble yourself in the least on my account," broke in
the Count gayly. "As for abandoning my car, such a stupid notion
would never enter my mind. No, no! I wait for Smith, but you may rely
on my appearance in Bristol before you have finished dinner."

Though it was no simple matter to back and turn the Mercury in that
rough and narrow road, Medenham accomplished the maneuver with a skill
that the Frenchman appreciated to the full. For the first time he
noted the number when the tail-lamp revealed it.

"X L 4000," he commented to himself. "I must inquire who the owner is.
Devar or Smith will know where to apply for the information. And I
must also ascertain that fellow's history. Confound him, and my luck,
too! If the Devar woman has any sense she will keep Cynthia well out
of his way until the other chauffeur arrives."

As it happened, the "Devar woman" was thinking the same thing at the
same moment, but, being nervous, dared not attempt to utter her
thoughts while the car was creeping cautiously over the ruts and
stones. At last, when the highroad was reached, the pace quickened,
and she regained the faculty of speech.

"We have had a quite eventful day," she said with an air of motherly
solicitude, turning to the distrait girl by her side. "I am sure you
are tired. What between an extra amount of sightseeing and poor Count
Edouard's unfortunate mistake, we have been in the car nearly twelve
hours."

"How did Fitzroy discover that we had taken the wrong road?" asked
Cynthia, rousing herself from a perplexed reverie.

"Well, he drove very fast from Cheddar, much too fast, to my thinking,
though the risk has been more than justified by circumstances. Of
course, it is always easy to be wise after the event. At any rate,
there being no sign of your car when we reached the top of a long
hill, we--er--we discussed matters, and decided to explore the
byroad."

"Did you remain long in Cheddar? If Fitzroy hit up the pace, why were
you so far behind?"

"I waited a few minutes to address some postcards. And that reminds
me--Fitzroy sent a most impertinent message by one of the
servants----"

"Impertinent!"

"My dear, there is no other word for it--something about going off
without me if I did not start instantly. Really, I shall be glad when
Simmonds takes his place. But there! We must not renew our Bournemouth
argument."

"And he caused a servant in the hotel to speak to you in that manner?"

"Yes--the very girl who waited on us at tea--a pert creature, who
seemed to find the task congenial."

Mrs. Devar was building better than she knew. Cynthia laughed, though
not with the whole-souled merriment that was music in Medenham's ears.

"She has been properly punished; I forgot to tip her," she explained.

"Count Edouard would see to that----"

"He didn't. I noticed what he paid--out of sheer curiosity. Perhaps I
ought to send her something."

"My dear Cynthia!"

But dear Cynthia was making believe to be quite amused by a notion
that had just suggested itself. She leaned forward in the darkness and
touched Medenham's shoulder.

"Do you happen to know the name of the waitress who brought you some
tea at Cheddar?" she asked. "None of us gave her anything, and I hate
to omit these small items. If I had her name I could forward a postal
order from Bristol."

"There is no need, Miss Vanrenen," said Medenham. "I handed her--well,
sufficient to clear all claims."

"_You_ did? But why?"

The temptation to explain that he had never seen the girl before that
day was strong, but he waived it, and contented himself with saying:

"I--er--can't exactly say--force of habit, I imagine."

"Is she a friend of yours?"

"No."

Cynthia subsided into the tonneau.

"Of all the odd things!" she murmured, little dreaming that her chance
question had sent a thrill of sheer delight through Medenham's every
vein.

"What is it now?" inquired Mrs. Devar vindictively, for she detested
these half confidences.

"Oh, nothing of any importance. Fitzroy footed the bill, it seems."

"Very probably. He must have bribed the girl to be impudent."

Cynthia left it at that. She wished these people would stop their
quarreling, which threatened to spoil an otherwise perfect day.

The Mercury ran smoothly into ancient Bristol, crossed the Avon by the
pontoon bridge, and whirled up the hill to the College Green Hotel.
There, on the steps, stood Captain James Devar. Obviously, he did not
recognize them, and Medenham guessed the reason--he expected to meet
his mother only, and bestowed no second glance on a car containing two
ladies. Indeed, his first words betrayed sheer amazement. Mrs. Devar
cried, "Ah, there you are, James!" and James's eyeglass fell from its
well-worn crease.

"Hello, mater!" he exclaimed. "But what's up? Why are you--where is
Marigny?"

"Miles away--the silly man ran short of petrol. Fortunately our car
came to the rescue, or it would have been most awkward, since Miss
Vanrenen was with the Count at the time. Cynthia, you have not met my
son. James, this is Miss Vanrenen."

The little man danced forward. Like all short and stout mortals, he
was nimble on his feet, and his mother's voluble outburst warned him
of an unforeseen hitch in the arrangements.

"Delighted, I'm shaw," said he. "But, by gad, fancy losing poo-aw
Eddie! What have you done with him? Dwiven a stake through him and
buwied him at a cwoss woad?"

Medenham dreaded that the too-faithful Simmonds, car and all, would be
found awaiting their arrival, and it was a decided relief when the
only automobile in sight proved to be the state equipage of some local
magnate dining at the hotel. Cynthia, apparently, had shared his
thoughts so far as they concerned Simmonds.

"I suppose your friend Simmonds will reveal his whereabouts during the
evening," she said, while disencumbering herself of her wraps. Mrs.
Devar had already alighted, but the girl was standing in the car and
spoke over Medenham's shoulder.

"Of course, he may not be here," was the answer, not given too loudly,
since Mrs. Devar had hastened to give details to the perplexed James,
and there was no need to let either of them overhear his words.

"Oh my! What will happen, then?"

"In that event, I should feel compelled to take his place again."

"But the compulsion, as you put it, tends rather to take you to
London."

"I have changed my mind, Miss Vanrenen," he said simply.

She tittered. There was just a spice of coquetry in her manner as she
stooped nearer.

"You believe that Simmonds would not have found me in that wretched
lane to-night," she whispered.

"I am quite sure of it."

"But the whole affair was a mere stupid error."

"I am only too glad that I was enabled to put it right," he said with
due gravity.

"Cynthia," came a shrill voice, "do make haste, I am positively
starving."

"Guess you'd better lose Simmonds," breathed the girl, and an
unaccountable fluttering of her heart induced a remarkably high color
in her cheeks when she sped up the steps of the hotel and entered the
brilliantly-lighted atrium.

As for Medenham, though he had carefully mapped out the exact line of
conduct to be followed in Bristol while watching the radiantly white
arc of road that quivered in front of the car during the run from the
Mendips, for a second or two he dared not trust his voice to ask the
hall-porter certain necessary questions. Unaided by the glamor of
birth or position he had won this delightful girl's confidence. She
believed in him now as she would never again believe in Count Edouard
Marigny; what that meant in such a moment, none can tell but a devout
lover. Naturally, that was his point of view; it did not occur to him
that Cynthia might already have regretted the impulse which led her to
utter her thoughts aloud. Her nature was of the Martian type revealed
to Swedenborg in one of his philosophic trances. "The inhabitants of
Mars," said he, "account it wicked to think one thing and speak
another--to wish one thing while the face expresses another." Happy
Martians, perhaps, but not quite happy Cynthia, still blushing hotly
because of her daring suggestion as to the disposal of Simmonds.

But she was deeply puzzled by the mishap to the Du Vallon. Unwilling
to think evil of anyone, she felt, nevertheless, that Fitzroy (as she
called him) would never have treated both Mrs. Devar and the Frenchman
so cavalierly if he had not anticipated the very incident that
happened on the Mendips. Why did he turn back? How did he really find
out what had become of them? What would Simmonds have done in his
stead? A hundred strange doubts throbbed in her brain, but they were
jumbled in confusion before that more intimate and insistent
question--how would Fitzroy interpret her eagerness to retain him in
her service?

Meanwhile, the Swedish seer's theory of Martian speech and thought
acting in unity was making itself at home on the pavement in front of
the hotel.

Medenham learnt from the hall-porter that a motor-car had reached
Bristol from London about five o'clock. The driver, who was alone, had
asked for Miss Vanrenen, and was told that she was expected but had
not yet arrived, whereupon he went off, saying that he would call
after dinner.

"Another shuffer kem a bit later an' axed the same thing," went on the
man, "but he didn't have no car, an' he left no word about callin'
again."

"Excellent!" said Medenham. "Now please go and tell Captain Devar that
I wish to see him."

"Here?"

"Yes. I cannot leave my car. He must be at liberty, as he is in
evening dress, and the ladies will not come downstairs under half an
hour."

Devar soon appeared. His mother had managed to inform him that the
substituted driver was responsible for the complete collapse of
Marigny's project, and he was puffing with annoyance, though well
aware that he must not display it.

"Well," said he, strutting up to Medenham and blowing a cloud of
cigarette smoke from his thick lips, "well, what is it, my man?"

For answer, Medenham disconnected a lamp and held it close to his own
face.

"Do you recognize me?" he asked.

Devar, in blank astonishment, affected to screw in his eyeglass more
firmly.

"No," he said, "nor am I particularly anxious to make your
acquaintance. You have behaved wather badly, I understand, but that is
of no consequence now, as Simmonds has bwought his car he-aw----"

"Look again, Devar. We last met in Calcutta, where you swindled me out
of fifty pounds. Unfortunately I did not hear of your presence in
South Africa until you were cashiered at Cape Town, or I might have
saved the authorities some trouble."

The man wilted under those stern eyes.

"Good gad! Medenham!" he stammered.

Medenham replaced the lamp in its socket.

"I am glad you are not trying any pretense," he said. "Otherwise I
would be forced to take action, with the most lamentable consequences
for you, Devar. Now, I will hold my hand, provided you obey me
implicitly. Send for your overcoat, go straight to the Central
Station, and travel to London by the next train. You can scribble some
excuse to your mother, but, if I have any cause even to suspect that
you have told her who I am, I shall not hesitate to put the police on
your track. You must vanish, and be dumb--for three months at least.
If you are hard up, I will give you some money--sufficient for a
fortnight's needs--and you can write to me for further supplies at my
London address. Even a rascal like you must be permitted to live, I
suppose, so I risk breaking the law myself by screening you from
justice. Those are my terms. Do you accept them?"

The red face had grown yellow, and the steel-gray eyes that were a
heritage of the Devar family glistened with terror, but the man
endeavored to obtain mercy.

"Dash it all, Medenham," he groaned, "don't be too hard on me. I'm
goin' stwaight now--'pon me honor. This chap, Marigny----"

"You fool! I offer you liberty and money, yet you try brazenly to get
me to fall in with your wretched designs against Miss Vanrenen! Which
is it to be--a police cell or the railway station?"

Medenham moved as if to summon the hall-porter. In a very frenzy of
fear Devar caught his arm.

"For Gawd's sake----" he whispered.

"You go, then?"

"Yes."

"I am prepared to spare you to the utmost extent. Tell the hall-porter
to bring your overcoat and hat, and to give you a sheet of note-paper
and an envelope. Show me what you write. If it is satisfactory I shall
start you with twenty pounds. You can send from London to-morrow for
your belongings, as your hotel bill will be paid. But remember! One
treacherous word from you and I telegraph to Scotland Yard."

Mrs. Devar had a bad quarter of an hour when a penciled note from her
son was delivered at her room and she read:

     DEAR MATER--I hardly had time to tell you that I am obliged
     to return to town this evening. Please make my apologies to
     Miss Vanrenen and Count Marigny.
                    Yours ever,
                         J.

Medenham frowned a little at the reference to Cynthia, but something
of the sort was necessary if an open scandal was to be avoided. As for
"Dear Mater," she was so unnerved that she actually wept. Hard and
calculating though she might be, the man was her son, and the bitter
experiences of twenty years warned her that he had been driven from
Bristol by some ghost new risen from an evil past.

Medenham, however, believed that he had settled one difficulty, and
prepared blithely to tackle another. He ran the car to the garage
where he had arranged to meet Dale.

"Have you seen Simmonds?" was his first question.

"Yes, my l----, yes, sir."

"Where is he?"

"Just off for a snack, sir, before goin' to the hotel."

"Bring him here at once. We will attend to the snack afterwards. No
mistake, now, Dale. He must see no one in the hotel until he and I
have had a talk."

Simmonds was produced. He saluted.

"Glad to meet you again, my lord," he said. "I hope I haven't caused
any trouble by sending that telegram to Bournemouth, but Dale tells me
that you don't wish your title to be known."

"Forget it," said Medenham. "I have done you a good turn,
Simmonds--are you prepared to do me one?"

"Just try me, sir."

"Put your car out of commission. Stick a pin through the earth contact
of your magneto and jam it against a cylinder, or something of the
sort. Then go to Miss Vanrenen and tell her how sorry you are, but you
must have another week at least to pull things straight. She will not
be vexed, and I guarantee you against any possible loss. To put the
best face on affairs, you had better remain in Bristol a few days at
my expense. Of course, it is understood that I deputize for you during
the remainder of the tour."

Simmonds, no courtier, grinned broadly, and even Dale winked at the
North Star; Medenham had steeled himself against such manifestations
of crude opinion--his face was impassive as that of a graven image.

"Of course I'll oblige you in that way, my lord. Who wouldn't?" came
the slow reply.




CHAPTER VII

WHEREIN CYNTHIA TAKES HER OWN LINE


When the Mercury, shining from Dale's attentions, halted noiselessly
opposite the College Green Hotel on the Saturday morning, Count
Edouard Marigny was standing there; the Du Vallon was not in evidence,
and its owner's attire bespoke other aims than motoring, at any rate
for the hour.

Evidently he was well content with himself. A straw hat was set on the
back of his head, a cigarette stuck between his lips, his hands were
thrust into his trousers pockets, and his feet were spread widely
apart. Taken altogether, he had the air of a man without a care in the
world.

He smiled, too, in the most friendly fashion, when Medenham's eyes met
his.

"I hear that Simmonds is unable to carry out his contract," he said
cheerfully.

"You are mistaken, a second time, monsieur," said Medenham.

"Why, then, are _you_ here this morning?"

"I am acting for Simmonds. If anything, my car is slightly superior to
his, while I may be regarded as an equally competent driver, so the
contract is kept in all essentials."

Marigny still smiled. The Frenchman of mid-Victorian romance would
have shelved this point by indulging in "an inimitable shrug"; but
nowadays Parisians of the Count's type do not shrug--with John Bull's
clothing they have adopted no small share of his stolidness.

"It is immaterial," he said. "I have sent my man to offer him my Du
Vallon, and Smith will go with him to explain its humors. You, as a
skilled motorist, understand that a car is of the feminine gender.
Like any other charming demoiselle, it demands the exercise of
tact--it yields willingly to gentle handling----"

Medenham cut short the Count's neatly turned phrases.

"Simmonds has no need to avail himself of your courtesy," he said. "As
for the rest, give me your address in Paris, and when next I visit the
French capital I shall be delighted to analyze these subtleties with
you."

"Ah, most admirable! But the really vital question before us to-day is
your address in London, Mr. Fitzroy."

Marigny dwelt on the surname as if it were a succulent oyster, and, in
the undeniable surprise of the moment, Medenham was forced to believe
that "Captain" Devar, formerly of Horton's Horse, had dared all by
telling his confederate the truth, or some part of the truth. The two
men looked squarely at each other, and Marigny did not fail to
misinterpret the dubious frown on Medenham's face.

He descended a step or two, and crossed the pavement leisurely,
dropping his voice so that it might not reach the ears of a porter,
laden with the ladies' traveling boxes, who appeared in the doorway.

"Why should we quarrel?" he asked, with an engaging frankness well
calculated to reassure a startled evildoer. "In this matter I am
anxious to treat you as a gentleman. _Allons, donc!_ Hurry off
instantly, and tell Simmonds to bring the Du Vallon here. Leave me to
explain everything to Miss Vanrenen. Surely you agree that she ought
to be spared the unpleasantness of a wrangle--or, shall we say, an
exposure? You see," he continued with a trifle more animation, and
speaking in French, "the game is not worth the candle. In a few hours,
at the least, you will be in the hands of the police, whereas, by
reaching London to-night, you may be able to pacify the Earl of
Fairholme. I can help, perhaps. I will say all that is possible, and
my testimony ought to carry some weight."

Medenham was thoroughly mystified. That the Frenchman was not yet
aware of his identity was now clear enough, though, with Devar's
probable duplicity still running in his mind, he could not solve the
puzzle presented by this vaunted half-knowledge.

Again the other attributed his perplexity to anything except its real
cause.

"I am willing to befriend you," he urged emphatically. "You have acted
foolishly, but not criminally, I hope. In your anxiety to help a
colleague you forgot the fine distinction which the law draws between
_meum_ and _tuum_----"

"No," said Medenham, turning to the porter. "Put the larger box on the
carrier, and strap the other on top of it--the locks outwards. Then
you will find that they fit exactly."

"Don't be a headstrong idiot," muttered the Count, with a certain heat
of annoyance making itself felt in his patronizing tone. "Miss
Vanrenen will come out at any minute----"

Medenham glanced at the clock by the side of the speed indicator.

"Miss Vanrenen is due now unless she is being purposely detained by
Mrs. Devar," he commented dryly.

"But why persist in this piece of folly?" growled Marigny, to whose
reluctant consciousness the idea of failure suddenly presented itself.
"You must realize by this time that I know who owns your car. A
telegram from me will put the authorities on your track, your arrest
will follow, and Miss Vanrenen will be subjected to the gravest
inconvenience. _Sacré nom d'un pipe!_ If you will not yield to fair
means I must resort to foul. It comes to this--you either quit Bristol
at once or I inform Miss Vanrenen of the trick you have played on
her."

Medenham turned and picked up from the seat the pair of stout
driving-gloves which had caught Smith's inquiring eye by reason of
their quality and substance. He drew on the right-hand glove, and
buttoned it. When he answered, he spoke with irritating slowness.

"Would it not be better for all concerned that the lady in whose
behalf you profess to be so deeply moved should be permitted to
continue her tour without further disturbance? You and I can meet in
London, monsieur, and I shall then have much pleasure in convincing
you that I am a most peaceable and law-abiding person."

"No," came the angry retort. "I have decided. I withdraw my offer to
overlook your offense. At whatever cost, Miss Vanrenen must be
protected until her father learns how his wishes have been disregarded
by a couple of English bandits."

"Sorry," said Medenham coolly.

He alighted in the roadway, as the driving seat was near the curb. A
glance into the vestibule of the hotel revealed Cynthia, in motor coat
and veil, giving some instructions, probably with regard to letters,
to a deferential hall-porter. Walking rapidly round the front of the
car, he caught Marigny's shoulder with his left hand.

"If you dare to open your mouth in Miss Vanrenen's presence, other
than by way of some commonplace remark, I shall forthwith smash your
face to a jelly," he said.

A queer shiver ran through the Frenchman's body, but Medenham did not
commit the error of imagining that his adversary was afraid. His grip
on Marigny's shoulder tightened. The two were now not twelve inches
apart, and the Englishman read that involuntary tension of the muscles
aright, for there is a palsy of rage as of fear.

"I have some acquaintance with the _savate_," he said suavely. "Please
take my word for it, and you will be spared an injury. A moment ago
you offered to treat me like a gentleman. I reciprocate now by being
willing to accept your promise to hold your tongue. Miss Vanrenen is
coming.... What say you?"

"I agree," said Marigny, though his dark eyes blazed redly.

"Ah, thanks!" and Medenham's left hand busied itself once more with
the fastening of the glove.

"You understand, of course?" he heard, in a soft snarl.

"Perfectly. The truce ends with my departure. Meanwhile, you are
acting wisely. I don't suppose I shall ever respect you so much
again."

"Now, you two--what are you discussing?" cried Cynthia from the porch.
"I hope you are not trying to persuade my chauffeur to yield his place
to you, Monsieur Marigny. Once bitten, twice shy, you know, and I
would insist on checking each mile by the map if you were at the
wheel."

 [Illustration: "Now, you two--what are you discussing?"
                                             _Page 148_]

"Your chauffeur is immovable, mademoiselle," was the ready answer,
though the accompanying smile was not one of the Count's best efforts.

"He looks it. Why are you vexed, Fitzroy? Can't you forgive your
friend Simmonds?"

Cynthia lifted those demure blue eyes of hers, and held Medenham's
gaze steadfast.

"I trust you are not challenging contradiction, Miss Vanrenen?" he
said, with deliberate resolve not to let her slip back thus easily
into the rôle of gracious employer.

She did not flinch, but her eyebrows arched a little.

"Oh, no," she said offhandedly. "Simmonds told me his misfortunes last
night, and I assumed that you and he had settled matters
satisfactorily between you."

"As for that," broke in the Count, "I have just offered my car as a
substitute, but Fitzroy prefers to take you as far as Hereford, at any
cost."

"Hereford! I understood from Simmonds that Mr. Fitzroy would see us
through the remainder of the tour?"

"Monsieur Marigny is somewhat vague in our island topography: you saw
that last evening," said Medenham.

He smiled. Cynthia, too, glanced from one to the other with a frank
merriment that showed how fully she appreciated their mutual dislike.
As for Marigny, his white teeth gleamed now in a sarcastic grin.

"Adversity is a strict master," he said, lapsing into his own language
again. "My blunder of yesterday has shown me the need of caution, so I
go no farther than Hereford in my thoughts."

"It is more to the point to tell us how far you are going in your
car," cried the girl lightly.

"I, too, hope to be in Hereford to-night. Mrs. Devar says you mean to
spend Sunday there. If that is a fixed thing, and you can bear with me
for a few hours, I shall meet you there without fail."

"Come, by all means, if your road lies that way; but don't let us make
formal engagements. I love to think that I am drifting at will through
this land of gardens and apple blossom. And, just think of it--three
cathedrals in one day--a Minster for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,
with Tintern Abbey thrown in for afternoon tea. Such a wealth of
medievalism makes my head reel.... I was in there for matins," and she
nodded to the grave old pile rearing its massive Gothic within a few
paces of the hotel. "At high noon we shall visit Gloucester, and
to-night we shall see Hereford. All that within a short hundred miles,
to say nothing of Chepstow, Monmouth, the Wye Valley! Ah, me! I shall
never overtake my correspondence while there are so many glories to
describe. See, I have bought some darling little guidebooks which tell
you just what to say in a letter. What between judicious extracts and
a sheaf of picture postcards scribbled at each place I'll try and keep
my friends in good humor."

She produced from a pocket three of the red-covered volumes so
familiar to Americans in Britain--and to Britons themselves, for that
matter, when the belated discovery is made that it is not necessary to
cross the Channel in order to enjoy a holiday--and showed them
laughingly to Medenham.

"Now," she cried, "I am armed against you. No longer will you be able
to paralyze me with your learning. If you say 1269 at Tintern I shall
retort with 1387 at Monmouth. When you point out Nell Gwynne's
birthplace in Hereford, I shall take you to the Haven Inn, where David
Garrick was born, and, if you aren't very, very good, I shall tell you
how much the New Town Hall cost, and who laid the foundation stone."

Medenham alone held the key to the girl's lively mood, and it was a
novel and quite delightful sensation to be thus admitted to the inner
shrine of her emotions, as it were. She was chattering at random in
order to smooth away the awkwardness of meeting him after that
whispered indiscretion at their parting overnight. Here, at least,
Marigny was hopelessly at sea--_désorienté_, as he would have put
it--because he could not possibly know that Cynthia herself had
counseled the disappearance of Simmonds. Indeed, he attributed her
high spirits to mere politeness--to her wish that he should believe
she had forgotten the fiasco on the Mendips.

This imagined salving of his wounded vanity served only to inflame him
the more against Medenham. He was still afire with resentment, since
no Frenchman can understand the rude Saxon usage that enforces
submission under a threat of physical violence. That a man should be
ready to defend his honor--to convince an opponent by endeavoring to
kill him--yes, he accepted without cavil those tenets of the French
social code. But the brutal British fixity of purpose displayed by
this truculent chauffeur left him gasping with indignation. He was
quite sure that the man meant exactly what he had said. He felt that
any real departure from the compact wrung from him by force would
prove disastrous to his personal appearance, and he was sensible of a
certain weighing underlook in the Englishman's eyes when his seemingly
harmless chatter hinted at a change of existing plans as soon as
Hereford was reached.

But that was a mere feint, a preliminary flourish, such as a practiced
swordsman executes in empty air before saluting his opponent. He had
not the slightest intention of testing Medenham's pugilistic powers
just then. The reasonable probability of having his chief features
beaten to a pulp was not inviting, while the crude efficacy of the
notion, in its influence on Miss Vanrenen's affairs, was not the least
stupefying element in a difficult and wholly unforeseen situation. He
realized fully that anyth

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