by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER IV
SHADOWS--WITH OCCASIONAL GLEAMS
Mrs. Devar ate her soup in petrified silence. Among the diners were atleast two peers and a countess, all of whom she knew slightly; at noother time during the last twenty years would she have missed such anopportunity of impressing the company in general and her companion inparticular by waddling from table to table and greeting theseacquaintances with shrill volubility.
But to-night she was beginning to be alarmed. Her youthful protegeewas carrying democratic training too far; it was quite possible that arequest to modify an unconventional freedom of manner where Fitzroywas concerned would meet with a blank refusal. That threatened a realdifficulty in the near future, and she was much perturbed by beingcalled on to decide instantly on a definite course of action. Toostrong a line might have worse consequences than a _laissez faire_attitude. As matters stood, the girl was eminently plastic, hernaturally gentle disposition inducing respect for the opinions andwishes of an older and more experienced woman, yet there was afearlessness, a frank candor of thought, in Cynthia's character thatawed and perplexed Mrs. Devar, in whom the unending struggle to keepafloat in the swift and relentless torrent of social existence hadatrophied every sense save that of self-preservation. An open rupture,such as she feared might take place if she asserted her shadowyauthority, was not to be dreamed of. What was to be done? Smallwonder, then, that she should tackle her fish vindictively.
"Are you angry because Fitzroy is occupying the same hotel asourselves?" asked Cynthia at last.
The girl had amused herself by watching the small coteries ofstiff and starched Britons scattered throughout the room; she wasendeavoring to classify the traveled and the untraveled by varyingdegrees of frigidity. As it happened, she was wholly wrong in herrough analysis. The Englishman who has wandered over the map is, ifanything, more self-contained than his stay-at-home brother. He isoften a stranger in his own land, and the dozen most reserved menpresent that evening were probably known by name and deed throughoutthe 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 personalreminiscences confined exclusively to "the best people," should eatstolidly 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 thesuggestion that a chauffeur's affairs should cause her any uneasinesswhatsoever.
"I was really thinking of our tour," she lied glibly. "I am so sorryyou missed seeing Salisbury Cathedral. Why was the route altered?"
"Because Fitzroy remarked that the cathedral would always remain atSalisbury, whereas a perfect June day in the New Forest does not comeonce in a blue moon when one really wants it."
"For a person of his class he appears to say that sort of thing ratherwell."
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 isbeing broken down more and more every day. Your society is the easiestin the world to enter. You tolerate people in the highest circleswho would certainly suffer from cold feet if they showed up tooprominently in New York or Philadelphia; isn't it rather out offashion to be so exclusive?"
"Our aristocracy has such an assured position that it can afford tounbend," quoted the other.
"Oh, is that it? I heard my father say the other day that it has oftenmade him tired to see the way in which some of your titled nonentitiesgrovel before a Lithuanian Jew who is a power on the Rand. Butunbending is a different thing to groveling, perhaps?"
Mrs. Devar sighed, yet she gave a moment's scrutiny to a wine-listbrought 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 theworship 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 ifindependent," she said. "I can understand the calf proposition muchmore easily than the snobbishness that would forbid a gentleman likeFitzroy 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 boundsof fair comment, and Mrs. Devar was quick to seize the advantage thusoffered.
"From some points of view, Fitzroy and I are in the same boat," shesaid quietly. "Still, I cannot agree that it is snobbish to regard agroom or a coachman as a social inferior. I have been told that thereare several broken-down gentlemen driving omnibuses in London, butthat is no reason why one should ask one of them to dinner, eventhough his taste in wine might be beyond dispute."
Cynthia had already regretted her impulsive outburst. Her vein ofromance was imbedded in a rock of good sense, and she took theimplied 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 asnob. The absurdity of the statement carries its own refutation. Ispoke in general terms, and I am willing to admit that I was wrong inasking the man to come here to-night. But the incident happened quitenaturally. He mentioned the fact that he often stayed in the hotel asa boy----"
"Very probably," agreed Mrs. Devar cheerfully. "We are all subject toups and downs. For my part, I was speaking _a la_ chaperon, my solethought being to safeguard you from the disagreeable busy-bodies whomisconstrue one's motives. And now, let us talk of something moreamusing. You see that woman in old rose brocade--she is sitting with abald-headed man at the third table on your left. Well, that is theCountess of Porthcawl, and the man with her is Roger Ducrot, thebanker. Porthcawl is a most complaisant husband. He never comes withina 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 inthe 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 distinctionthat forbade friendship with Fitzroy while offering it with Millicent,Countess of Porthcawl. But the girl was resolved not to open a newrift. In her heart she longed for the day that would reunite her toher father; meanwhile, Mrs. Devar must be dealt with gently.
Despite its tame ending, this unctuous discussion on social ethics ledto wholly unforeseen results.
The allusion to a possible pier at Bournemouth meant more than Mrs.Devar imagined, but Cynthia resisted the allurements of anotherentrancing evening, went early to her room, and wrote duty letters fora couple of hours. The excuse served to cut short her share of theCountess's brilliant conversation, though Mr. Ducrot tried to makehimself very agreeable when he heard the name of Vanrenen.
Medenham, standing in the hall, suddenly came face to face with LadyPorthcawl, who was endowed with an unerring eye for minute shades ofdistinction in the evening dress garments of the opposite sex. Hercorrespondence consisted largely of picture postcards, and she hadjust purchased some stamps from the hall porter when she saw Medenhamtake a telegram from the rack where it had been reposing since theafternoon. 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 manwhom she was longing to meet, "don't say I've grown so old that youhave forgotten me!"
He started, rather more violently than might be looked for in ashikari whose nerves had been tested in many a ticklish encounter withother members of the cat tribe. In fact, he had just been disturbed bycoming across the unexpected telegram, wherein Simmonds assured hislordship that the rejuvenated car would arrive at the College GreenHotel, Bristol, on Friday evening. At the very moment that he realizedthe imminence o
f Cynthia's disappearance into the void it was doublydisconcerting to be hailed by a woman who knew his world so intimatelythat it would be folly to smile vacantly at her presumed mistake.
Some glint of annoyance must have leaped to his eyes, for the livelycountess glanced around with a mimic fright that testified to herskill as an actress.
"Good gracious!" she whispered, "have I given you away? I couldn'tguess you were here under a _nom de voyage_--now, could I?--when thattelegram 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 notbelieve that time would turn back even for a pretty woman. You lookyounger than ever, though I have not seen you for----"
"Oh, hush!" she cried. "Don't spoil your nice speech by countingyears. When did you arrive in England? Are you alone--really? You'vegrown quite a man in your jungles. Will you come to the lounge? Iwant ever so much to have a long talk with you. Mr. Ducrot isthere--the financier, you know--but I have left him safely anchoredalongside Maud Devar--a soft-furred old pussie who is clawing me nowbehind my back, I am sure. Have you ever met her? Wiggy Devar she waschristened in Monte, because an excited German leaned over her at thetables one night and things happened to her coiffure. And to show youhow broad-minded I am, I'll get her to bring downstairs the sweetestand daintiest American ingenue 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 ofMilwaukees. She is _it_--a pukka Gibson girl, quite ducky, with thedearest bit of an accent, and Mamma Devar is gadding around with herin a mo-car. Do come!"
Medenham was able to pick and choose where he listed in answering thishail of words.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said, "but the telegram I have just receivedaffects all my plans. I must hurry away this instant. When will you bein town? Then I shall call, praying meanwhile that there may be noDucrots or Devars there to blight a glorious gossip. If you bring meup to date as to affairs in Park Lane I'll reciprocate about the giddyequator. How--or perhaps I ought to say where--is Porthcawl?"
"In China," snapped her ladyship, fully alive to Medenham's politeevasion 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 SouthBelgravia, verging on Pimlico, nowadays. That is why Porthcawl is inChina ... and it explains Ducrot, too."
An unconscious bitterness crept into the smooth voice; Medenham, whohated confidences from the butterfly type of woman, neverthelesspitied her.
"Tell me where you live and I'll come round and hear all about it," hesaid sympathetically.
She gave him an address, and suddenly smiled on him with a yearningtenderness. She watched his tall figure as he strode down the hilltowards 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-headedDucrot and the bewigged Mrs. Devar.
"What a small world it is!" she vowed. "I ran across Medenham in thehall."
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 AugustusFitzroy."
"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'spolished dome compared badly with the bronzed skin of the nice boy whohad grown to be a man, so her ladyship's rebellious tongue soughtsafety in silence, since she could not afford to quarrel with him.
It is certainly true that the gods make mad those whom they mean todestroy. Never was woman nearer to a momentous discovery than Mrs.Devar at that instant, but her active brain was plotting how best todevelop a desirable acquaintance in Roger Ducrot, financier, and shemissed utterly the astounding possibility that Viscount Medenham andGeorge Augustus Fitzroy might be one and the same person.
In any other conditions Millicent Porthcawl's sharp wits couldscarcely have failed to ferret out the truth. Even if Cynthia werepresent it was almost a foregone conclusion that the girl would havetold how Fitzroy joined her. The luncheon provided for a missing aunt,the crest on the silver and linen, the style of the Mercury, a chanceallusion to this somewhat remarkable chauffeur's knowledge of theSouth Downs and of Bournemouth, would surely have put her ladyship onthe right track. From sheer enjoyment of an absurd situation she wouldhave caused Fitzroy to be summoned then and there, if only to seeWiggy Devar's crestfallen face on learning that she had entertained aviscount unawares.
But the violins were singing the Valse Bleu, and Cynthia was upstairs,longing for an excuse to venture forth into the night, and threepeople, at least, in the crowded lounge were thinking of anything butthe amazing oddity that had puzzled Ducrot, who did not con his Burke.
Medenham, of course, realized that he had been vouchsafed anothernarrow escape. What the morrow might bring forth he neither knew norcared. The one disconcerting fact that already shaped itself in themists of the coming day was Simmonds tearing breathlessly along theBath 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 alanguage without code or symbol known to all young men and maidens--alanguage that pierces stout walls and leaps wide valleys--and thatunlettered tongue whispered the hope that the girl might sauntertowards the pier. He turned forthwith into the public gardens, andquickened his pace. Arrived at the pier, he glanced up at the hotel.Of girls there were many on cliff and roadway, girls summer-like inattire, girls slender of waist and airy of tread, but no Cynthia. Hewent on the pier, and met more than one pair of bright eyes, but notCynthia's.
Then he made off in a fume to Dale's lodging, secured a linendust-coat which the man happened to have with him, returned to thehotel, and hurried unseen to his room, an easy matter in the RoyalBath, where many staircases twine deviously to the upper floors, andbrilliantly decorated walls dazzle the stranger.
He counted on the exigencies of Lady Porthcawl's toilette stopping atoo early appearance in the morning, and he was right.
At ten o'clock, when Cynthia and Mrs. Devar came out, the men loungingnear the porch were too interested in the girl and the car to bestow aglance on the chauffeur. Ducrot was there, bland and massive in a golfsuit. He pestered Cynthia with inquiries as to the exact dates whenher father would be in London, and Medenham did not hesitate to cutshort the banker's awkward gallantries by throwing the Mercury intoher stride with a whirl.
"By Jove, Ducrot," said someone, "your pretty friend's car jumped offlike a gee-gee under the starting gate."
"If that chauffeur of hers was mine, I'd boot him," was the wrathfulreply.
"Why? What's he done?"
"He strikes me as an impudent puppy."
"Anyhow, he can swing a motor. See that!" for the Mercury had executeda corkscrew movement between several vehicles with the sinuous graceof a greyhound.
Now it was Mrs. Devar, and not Cynthia, who leaned forward and saidpleasantly:
"You seem to be in a hurry to leave Bournemouth, Fitzroy."
"I am not enamored of bricks and mortar on a fine morning," heanswered.
"Well, I have full confidence in you, but don't embroil us with thepolice. 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 apeaceful 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 andWells--Mrs. Deva
r's blue-moldy joke might even have won a smile--butCynthia was preoccupied; strange that she, too, should be musing ofSimmonds and a hurrying car, for Medenham had told her that thetransfer would take place at Bristol.
She was only twenty-two, and her very extensive knowledge of the worldhad been obtained by three years of travel and constant associationwith her father. But her lines had always been cast in pleasantplaces. She had no need to deny herself any of the delights that lifehas to offer to youth and good health and unlimited means. Thediscovery that friendship called for discretion came now almost as ashock. It seemed to be a stupid social law that barred the way whenshe wished to enjoy the company of a well-favored man whom fate hadplaced at her disposal for three whole days. Herself a blue-bloodedAmerican, descendant of old Dutch and New England families, she wasquite able to discriminate between reality and sham. Mrs. Devar, shewas sure, was a pinchbeck aristocrat; Count Edouard Marigny might havesprung from many generations of French gentlemen, but her paidchauffeur was his superior in every respect save one--since, to allappearance, Marigny was rich and Fitzroy was poor.
Curiously enough, the man whose alert shoulders and well-poised headwere ever in view as the car hummed joyously through the pine woodshad taken on something of the mere mechanic in aspect since donningthat serviceable linen coat. The garment was weather-stained. It borerecords of over-lubrication, of struggles with stiff outer covers, ofrain and mud--that bird-lime type of mud peculiar to French militaryroads in the Alpes Maritimes--while a zealous detective might havefound traces of the black and greasy deposit that collects on the doorhandles and side rails of P. L. M. railway carriages. Medenhamborrowed it because of the intolerable heat of the leather jacket. Itsdistinctive character became visible when he viewed it in the Junesunshine, and he wore it as a substitute for sackcloth, since he, noless than Cynthia, recognized that a dangerous acquaintance wasdrawing 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 witchingscenery that Dorset unfolded at each turn of the road, and the womansat distrait, almost downcast.
Mrs. Devar was smugly complacent. Difficulties that loomed largeovernight were now vague shadows. When the Mercury stopped in front ofa comfortable inn at Yeovil it was she, and not Cynthia, who suggesteda social departure.
"This seems to be the only place in the town where luncheon isprovided. You had better leave the car in charge of a stableman, andjoin us, Fitzroy," she said graciously.
"Thank you, madam," said Medenham, rousing himself from a reverie, "Iprefer to remain here. The hotel people will look after my slightwants, as I dislike the notion of anyone tampering with the enginewhile I am absent."
"Is it so delicate, then?" asked Cynthia, with a smile that he hardlyunderstood, 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, andan inquisitive clodhopper can effect more damage in a minute than Ican repair in an hour."
His gruff tone was music in Mrs. Devar's ears. She actually sighed herrelief, but explained the lapse instantly.
"I do hope there is something nice to eat," she said. "This wonderfulair makes one dreadfully hungry. When our tour is ended, Cynthia, Ishall have to bant for months."
The fare was excellent. Under its stimulating influence Miss Vanrenenforgot her vapors and elected for the front seat during the run toGlastonbury. Medenham thawed, too. By chance their talk turned towayside flowers, and he let the Mercury creep through a high-bankedlane, all ablaze with wild roses and honeysuckle, while he pointed outthe blue field scabious, the pink and cream meadow-sweet, thesamphire, the milk-wort and the columbine, the campions in thecornland, and the yellow vetchling that ran up the hillside towardsone of the wooded "islands" peculiar to the center of Somerset.
Cynthia listened, and, if she marveled, betrayed no hint of surprisethat a chauffeur should have such a store of the woodman's craft.Medenham, aware only of a rapt audience of one, threw disguise to thebreeze created by the car when the pace quickened. He told of theGlastonbury Thorn, and how it was brought to the west country by noless a gardener than Joseph of Arimathea, and how St. Patrick was bornin the Isle of Avallon, so called because its apple-orchards boregolden fruit, and how the very name of Glastonbury is derived from thecrystal water that hemmed the isle----
"Please let me intrude one little question," murmured the girl. "I amvery ignorant of some things. What has 'Avallon' got to do with'apples'?"
"Ha!" cried Medenham, warming to his subject and retarding speedagain, "that opens up a wide field. In Celtic mythology Avallon isYnys yr Afallon, the Island of Apples. It is the Land of the Blessed,where Morgana holds her court. Great heroes like King Arthur and Ogierle Dane were carried there after death, and, as apples were the onlyfirst-rate fruit known to the northern nations, a place where theygrew 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 anorchard in full bloom.
Mrs. Devar could hear little and understand less of what they weresaying; but the nudge was eloquent; her steel-blue eyes narrowed, andshe thrust her face between them.
"We mustn't dawdle on the road, Fitzroy. Bristol is still a long wayoff, 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 ofthe towns to be visited, since Mrs. Devar had already admitted aspecial weakness in geography, and during the trip from Brighton toBournemouth 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 ruinsof St. Dunstan's monastery appearing above a low wall. In front of thebroken arches and tottering walls grew some apple trees so old andworn that no blossom decked their gnarled branches. Unbidden tearsglistened 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 herking in St. Joseph's Chapel."
Medenham had suddenly grown stern again. He glanced at her, and thenmade great business with brakes and levers, for Mrs. Devar was stillinquisitive.
"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 Abbeyis exactly opposite. In the George they will show you a room in whichHenry the Eighth slept, and I would recommend you to get a guide forhalf an hour at least."
"Must we walk?" demanded Mrs. Devar plaintively.
"Yes, if you wish to see anything. But one could throw a stone overthe chief show places, they are so close together."
So Cynthia was shown the Alfred Jewel, and Celtic dice-boxescarefully loaded for the despoiling of Roman legionaries or anunwary Phoenician, and heard the story of the Holy Grail from thelips of an ancient who lent credence to the legend by his venerableappearance. 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 thestreet, where the veteran proudly exhibited a duck with four feet. Hethen called Cynthia's attention to the carved panels of the GeorgeHotel, and pointed out a fine window, bayed on each successive story.She had almost forgotten the wretched duck when he mentioned atwo-headed calf which was on view at a neighboring dairy.
Mrs. Devar showed signs of interest, so Cynthia tipped the old manhurriedly, and ran to the car.
"I shall come here--some other time," she gasped, and it thrilled herto believe that Fitzroy understood, though he had heard no word ofquadruped fowl or bicipital monster.
At Wells Medenham pitied her. He bribed a policeman to guard theMercury, and when Mrs. Devar saw that more walking was expected of hershe elected to sit in the tonneau and admire the west front of thecathedral.
"Lady Porthcawl tells me it is a masterpiece," she chirped shrilly,"so I want to take it in at my leisure."
&n
bsp; Once more, therefore, did Medenham allow himself a half hour ofreal abandonment. He warned Cynthia that she must not endeavor toappreciate the architecture; with the hauteur of conscious genius,Wells refuses to allow anyone to absorb its true grandeur until ithas been seen many times and in all lights.
So he hied her to the exquisite Lady Chapel, and to the Chapter-HouseStairs, and to Peter Lightfoot's quaint old clock in the transept.Then, by some alchemy worked on a lodgekeeper, he led her to thegardens of the Bishop's palace, and showed her the real GlastonburyThorn, and even persuaded one of the swans in the moat to ring thebell attached to the wall whereby each morning for many a year theroyal birds have obtained their breakfast.
There is no lovelier garden in England than that of Wells Palace, andCynthia was so rapt in it that even Medenham had to pull out his watchand remind her of dusty roads leading to far-off Bristol.
Mrs. Devar looked so sour when they came from an inspection of one ofthe seven wells to which the town owes its name that Cynthia weakenedand sat by her side. Thereupon Medenham made amends for lost time byexceeding the speed limit along every inch of the run to Cheddar.
Of course he had to crawl through the narrow streets of the littletown, above which the bare crests of the Mendips give such slightpromise of the glorious gorge that cuts through their massiveness fromsouth to north. Even at the very lip of the magnificent canyon theoutlook is deceptive. Perhaps it is that the eye is caught by theflaring advertisements of the stalactite caves, or that baser emotionsare awakened by the sight of cozy tea-gardens--of one in particular,where a cascade tumbles headlong from the black rocks, and atree-shaded lawn offers rest and coolness after hours passed in thehot sun.
Be that as it may, "tea" had a welcome sound, and Medenham, who hadlunched on bread and beer and pickles, was glad to halt at theentrance of the inn that boasted a waterfall in its grounds.
The road was narrow, and packed with chars-a-bancs awaiting theirhordes of noisy trippers. Some of the men were tipsy, and Medenhamfeared for the Mercury's paint. To the left of the hotel lay aspacious yard that looked inviting. He backed in there when the ladieshad 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 withcuriosity.
"Yours is a New Mercury, isn't it?" he cried. "Was that car atBrighton on Wednesday night?"
"Yes," growled Medenham; he knew what to expect, and his face was grimbeneath 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, buthe made sure they hadn't passed this way when we turned up."
"And when was that?" asked Medenham, feeling unaccountably sick atheart.
"Soon after lunch. Ran here from Bristol. There's a bad bit of roadover the Mendips, but the rest is fine. I s'pose we'll all be hikingback there to-night?"
"Most probably," agreed Medenham, who said least when he was mostdisturbed; at that moment he could cheerfully have wrung Count EdouardMarigny's neck.
