by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER V
A FLURRY ON THE MENDIPS
It is a contrariety of human nature that men devoted to venturesomeforms of sport should often be tender-hearted as children. LordMedenham, who had done some slaying in his time, once risked his lifeto save a favorite horse from a Ganges quicksand, and his right armstill bore the furrows plowed in it by claws that would have torn hisspaniel to pieces in a Kashmir gully had he not thrust the emptybarrels 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 thesacrifice of a friend, but safety won at such a price would havegalled him worse than the spinning of a coin with death.
Wholly apart from considerations that he was strangely unwillingto acknowledge, even to his own heart, he now resented Marigny'scold-blooded pursuit of an unsuspecting girl mainly because of itsunfairness. Were Cynthia Vanrenen no more to him than the hundreds ofpretty women he would meet during a brief London season he would stillhave wished to rescue her from the money-hunting gang which hadmarked her down as an easy prey. But he had been vouchsafed glimpsesinto her white soul. That night at Brighton, and again to-day in thecloistered depths of the cathedral at Wells, she had admitted him tothe rare intimacy of those who commune deeply in silence.
It was not that he dared yet to think of a love confessed andreciprocated. The prince in disguise is all very well in a fairy tale;in England of the twentieth century he is an anachronism; and Medenhamwould as soon think of shearing a limb as of profiting by the chancethat threw Cynthia in his way. Of course, a less scrupulous wooermight have devised a hundred plausible methods of revealing hisidentity--was not Mrs. Devar, marriage-broker and adroit sycophant,ready to hand and purchasable?--and there was small room for doubtthat a girl's natural vanity would be fluttered into a blaze ofromance by learning that her chauffeur was heir to an old andwell-endowed peerage. But honor forbade, nor might he dream of winningher affections while flying false colors. True, it would not be hisfault if they did not come together again in the near future. He meantto forestall any breach of confidence on the part of Simmonds bywriting a full explanation of events to Cynthia herself. If hisharmless escapade were presented in its proper light, their nextmeeting should be fraught with laughter rather than reproaches; andthen--well, then, he might urge a timid plea that his repute as acareful pilot during those three memorable days was no badrecommendation for a permanency!
But now, in a flash, the entire perspective had changed. The Frenchmanand Mrs. Devar, between them, threatened to upset his best-laid plans.It was one thing to guess the nature of the sordid compact revealed atBrighton; it was quite another to be brought face to face with itsactive development at Cheddar. The intervening hours had disintegratedall his pet theories. In a word, the difference lay in himself--beforeand after close companionship with Cynthia.
It must not be imagined that Medenham indulged in this species ofself-analysis while fetching a pail of water to replace the wastagefrom the condenser. He was merely in a very bad temper, and could nottrust himself to speak until he had tended to his beloved engine.
He determined to set doubt at rest forthwith by the simple expedientof finding Miss Vanrenen, and seeing whether or not Marigny hadwaylaid her already.
"Keep an eye on my machine for a minute," he said to the guardian ofthe Du Vallon. "By the way, is Captain Devar here?" he added, sinceDevar's presence might affect his own actions.
"Oh, you know _him_, do you?" cried the other. "No, he didn't comewith us. We left him at Bristol. He's a bird, the captain. Played somejohnny at billiards last night for a quid, and won. He told theguv'nor this morning that there is another game fixed for to-day, andyou ought to have seen him wink. It's long odds again' the Bristolgent, or I'm very much mistaken. Yes, I'll keep any amatoor paws offyour car, and off my own as well, you bet."
To pass from the stable yard to the garden it was not necessary toenter the hotel. A short path, shaded by trellis-laden creepers andclimbing roses, led to a rustic bridge over the stream. When Medenhamhad gone halfway he saw the two women sitting with Marigny at a tableplaced well apart from other groups of tea-drinkers. They were talkinganimatedly, the Count smiling and profuse of gesture, while Cynthialistened with interest to what was seemingly a convincing statementof the fortunate hazard that led to his appearance at Cheddar. TheFrenchman was too skilled a stalker of shy game to pretend a secondtime 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 cometo 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 muchof a gad-about to earn money, but people are always asking him totheir 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 cutflowers, and a neat waitress had evidently been detailed by themanagement to look after these distinguished guests; Marigny's stagesetting for his first decisive move was undoubtedly well contrived. Itwas delightfully pastoral--a charming bit of rural England--and, assuch, eminently calculated to impress an American visitor.
Cynthia poured out a cup of tea, heaped a plate with cakes and breadand butter, and gave some instructions to the waitress. Medenham knewwhat that meant. He hurried back by the way he had come, and foundthat 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 brotherin the craft.
"38."
"Looks a sixty, every inch. I wonder if you could hold my car atBrooklands?"
"Perhaps not, but I may give you some dust to swallow over theMendips."
The chauffeur grinned.
"Of course you'd say that, but it all depends on what the guv'normeans 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 somegame to-day. He's fair crazy about that girl you have in tow--what'sher name? Vanrenen, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Medenham, replacing the hood after a critical glance atthe wires, though he hardly thought that this sturdy mechanic wouldplay 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 Ican do with a sup o' tea as well as anybody."
"Ask Miss Vanrenen to give you another cup for Count Marigny'schauffeur," said Medenham to the girl.
"Oh, he's a count, is he?" said the waitress saucily. "My, isn't hemashed 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-dozenpicture postcards. But what a voice! The old girl drowns thewaterfall."
The waitress flounced off. She was pretty, and no wandering chauffeurhad ever before turned aside the arrows of her bright eyes soheedlessly.
"Then you have seen Miss Vanrenen?" inquired Medenham, sipping histea.
"Ra-ther!" said Smith. "Saw her in Paris, at the Ritz, when my peoplesent me over there to learn the mechanism of this car. The Count wasalways hanging about, and I thought he wanted the old man to buy a DuVallon, but it's all Lombard Street to a china orange that he wasafter the daughter the whole time. I don't blame him. She's a regulardaisy. 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 thatSmith wo
uld blurt out every item of information that he possessed ifallowed to talk.
"He's a corker, is Dale," mused the other. "I can do with a pint ortwo meself when the day's work is finished an' the car safely lockedup for the night. But that Dale! he's a walkin' beer-barrel. Lord lovea duck! what a soakin' he gev' me in Brighton. Some lah-di-dah toffswaggered into the garage that evenin', and handed Dale a fiver--fivegolden quidlets, if you please--which my nibs had won on a horse atEpsom. I must say, though, Dale did the thing handsome--quart bottleso' Bass opened every ten minutes. Thank you, my dear"--this to thewaitress, "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 thegarden a little while ago," said Medenham.
"That's his artfulness, my boy. You wait a bit. You'll see somethingbefore 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 Medenhaminnocently.
"What! Is that the old party with the hair? I thought she was theyoung lady's mother. She's gone with them. She looks that sort ofmeddler--not half. Two's company an' three's none is my motto, caveor no cave."
She tried her most bewitching smile on Medenham this time. It was anovel 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 cavethe 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 saidquietly:
"We shall remain here half an hour or more, Fitzroy. I thought Iwould tell you in case you wished to smoke--or occupy your time in anyother 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 beenflirting with this rosy-cheeked servant, and he might never have anopportunity of telling her that his sole reason for encouraging theconversation lay in his anxiety to learn as much as possible aboutMarigny 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 astare of astonishment strongly tinctured with indignation, he stoopedin unnecessary scrutiny of the Mercury's tires. The minx tossed herhead.
"Some folks are as grand as their missuses," she remarked, and wentback to her garden.
But Smith looked puzzled. Medenham, no good actor at any time, haddropped too quickly the air of camaraderie which had been a successfulpassport hitherto. His voice, his manner, the courtly insolence ofthe maid's dismissal, evoked vague memories in Smith's mind. Thesquare-shouldered, soldierly figure did not quite fit into thepicture, but he seemed to hear that same authoritative voicespeaking to Dale in the Brighton garage.
"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 throughthe world dressing for dinner each night and distributing gold intheir leisure moments. But Smith's bump of inquisitiveness was welldeveloped, as the phrenologists say, and he was already impressed bythe fact that no firm could afford to send out for hire a car likeMedenham's.
"Funny thing," he said at last. "I seem to have met you somewhere orother. Who do you work for?"
"Myself."
Medenham caught the note of bewilderment, and was warned. Hestraightened himself with a smile, though it cost him an effort tolook cheerful.
"Have a cigarette?" he said.
"Don't mind if I do. Thanks." Then, after a pause, and some puffingand tasting: "Sorry, old man, but this baccy ain't my sort. It tastesqueer. What is it? Flor de Cabbagio? Here, take one of mine!"
Medenham, in chastened mood, accepted a "five a penny" cigarette, andsaw Smith throw away the exquisite brand that Sevastopolo, of BondStreet, supplied to those customers only who knew the price paid byconnoisseurs for the leaf grown on one small hillside above thesun-steeped bay of Salonika.
"Yes," he agreed, bravely poisoning the helpless atmosphere, "this isbetter suited to the occasion."
"A bit of all right, eh? I can't stand the Count's cigaretteseether--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 hemight worry along for a year or so, but, you mark my words, if hedoesn't--Well, it's no business of mine, only just keep your eyesopen. You're going through with this tour?"
"I--believe so," said Medenham slowly--and thus he took the greatresolution 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'sweeds, the man was still furtively racking his brains to account forcertain discrepancies in his new acquaintance's bearing and address.Medenham's hands, for instance, were too well kept. His boots were oftoo good a quality. His reindeer driving gloves, discarded and lyingon the front seat, were far too costly. The disreputable linen coatmight hide many details, but not these. Every now and then Smithwanted 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 findits opportunity between Cheddar and Bristol. The distance was notgreat--perhaps eighteen miles--by a fairly direct second-class road,and on this fine June evening it was still safe to count on three longhours of daylight. It was doubly irritating, therefore, to thinkthat by his own lack of diplomacy he had almost forfeited Smith'sconfidence. Twice had the man been on the very brink of revelation,for he was one of those happy-go-lucky beings not fitted for thesafeguarding of secrets, yet on each occasion his tongue faltered insubconscious knowledge that he was about to betray his master'saffairs.
Feeling that Dale would have managed this part of the day's adventuresfar better than himself, Medenham took his seat and touched theswitch.
"We have to make Bristol by seven o'clock, so I shall pull out infront; I suppose Count Marigny will give the ladies the road?" heremarked 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 henodded 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 agood-humored sneer. It was as though he said:
"You wait a bit, my dandy shuffer--you ain't through with hisCountship yet--not by any manner o' means."
And Medenham did wait, till nearly seven o'clock. He saw Cynthia andher companions come out of Gough's Cave and enter Cox's. These fairygrottoes of nature's own contriving were well worthy of closeinspection, he knew. Nowhere else in the world can stalactites thatdroop from the roof, stalagmites that spring from the floor, be seenin such perfection of form and tint. But he fretted and fumed becauseCynthia was immured too long in their ice-cold recesses, and when, atlast, she reappeared from the second cavern and halted near a stall topurchase some curios, impatience mastered him, and he brought the carslowly 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. "Mon
sieur Marigny will takeme to Bristol, and you will follow with Mrs. Devar."
He did not flinch from her steadfast gaze, though those blue eyes ofhers seemed definitely to forbid any expression of opinion. Yet therewas a challenge in them, too, and he accepted it meekly.
"I was hoping that I might have the pleasure of driving you thisevening," he said. "The run through the pass is very interesting, andI know every inch of it."
He fancied that she was conscious of some mistake, and eager to atoneif in the wrong.
She hesitated, yielded almost, but Mrs. Devar broke in angrily:
"We have decided differently, Fitzroy. I have some few postcards todispatch, and Count Marigny has kindly promised to run slowly up thehill 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 thisnarrow road. Back a bit to one side, there's a good fellow, and, whenwe have gone, pull up to the door. Come, Miss Vanrenen. I am fierce toshow you the paces of a Du Vallon."
The concluding sentences were in French, but Count Edouard spokeidiomatic English fluently and with a rather fascinating accent.
Cynthia, slightly ruffled by her own singular lack of purpose, madeno further demur. The three walked off down the hill, and Medenhamcould only obey in a chill rage that, were Marigny able to gauge itsintensity, might have given him "furiously to think."
In a few minutes the Du Vallon scurried by. Smith was driving, andthere was a curious smirk on his red face as he glanced at Medenham.Cynthia sat in the tonneau with the Frenchman, who drew her attentionto the limestone cliffs in such wise that she did not even see theMercury as she passed.
Medenham muttered something under his breath, and reversed slowly backto the inn. He consulted his watch.
"I'll give the postcard writer ten minutes--then I shall jar hernerves badly," he promised himself.
Those minutes were slow-footed, but at last he closed the watch with asnap. 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 clearthat this man was not her lawful quarry.
"Yes--sir," she said.
"Take it, then, and tell the elderly lady belonging to my party--sheis somewhere inside--that Fitzroy says he cannot wait any longer. Usethose 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 toBristol, or elsewhere, without you."
"Or elsewhere?" she gasped, though some of her high color fled underhis 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 theeyes.
She had her fair share of that wisdom of the serpent which isindispensable to evildoers, and had learnt early in life that whereasmany men say they will do that which they really will not do if put tothe test, other men, rare but dominant, can be trusted to make goodtheir 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 reposeas she could muster to her aid.
Medenham seemed to be suddenly afflicted with deafness. Afternegotiating a line of vehicles, the Mercury leaped past the caves ofGough and Cox as though the drip of lime-laden water within thoseamazing depths were reeling off centuries in a frenzy of haste insteadof measuring time so slowly that no appreciable change has been notedin the tiniest stalactite during fifty years. Mrs. Devar then grewgenuinely 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 ofrushing full tilt against a jutting rock. She could endure the strainno longer, but stood up and screamed.
Medenham slackened speed. When the curving road opened sufficiently toshow 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 youwish 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 rapidspeed."
"But why, why?" she almost wailed. "Have you gone mad, to drive likethat?"
"Again I pledge my word that there is no risk. I mean to overtake MissVanrenen 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 ofimpotent despair. Medenham was sure she would not dare to leave him.What wretched project she and Marigny had concocted he knew not, butits successful outcome evidently depended on Mrs. Devar's safe arrivalin Bristol. Moreover, it was a paramount condition that he should bedelayed at Cheddar, and his chief interest lay in defeating that partof the programme. Without another word, he released the brakes, andthe car sped onward.
Now they were plunging into a magnificent defile shadowed by sheercliffs that on the eastern side rose to a height of five hundred feet.Fluttering rock pigeons circled far up in the azure riband thatspanned 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 innumerablejack-daws. It was dark and gloomy, most terrifying to Mrs. Devar,down there on the twining road where the car boomed ever on likesome relentless monster rushing from its lair. But the Cheddargorge, though majestic and awe-inspiring, is not of great extent.Soon the valley widened, the road took longer sweeps to round eachfrowning buttress, and at last emerged, with a quality of inanimatebreathlessness, on to the bleak and desolate tableland of the Mendips.
At this point, had Cynthia been there, Medenham would have stoppedfor a while, so that she might admire the far-flung panorama of the"island valley of Avallon" that stretched below the ravine. Out ofthe green pastures in the middle distance rose the ruined towers ofGlastonbury. The purple and gold of Sedgemoor, relieved by the softoutlines of the Polden hills, the grim summits of Taunton Dean and theBlackdown range, the wooded Quantocks dipping to the Severn, and thegiant mass of Exmoor bounding the far horizon,--these great splashesof color, softened and blended by belts of farmland and the blue smokeof clustering hamlets, formed a picture that not even Britain'sstorehouse of natural beauty can match too often to sate the eyes ofthose who love a charming landscape.
He had, as it were, jealously guarded this vista all day, said not aword of it, even when Cynthia and he discussed the route, so that itmight come at last in one supreme moment of revelation. And now thatit was here, Cynthia was hidden somewhere in the gray distance, andMedenham was frowning at a flying strip of white road, with his everyfaculty intent on exacting the last ounce of power from the superbmachine he controlled.
The miles rolled beneath, yet there was no token of the Du Vallon thatwas to "run slowly up the hill" until overtaken by the industriouswriter of postcards. At the utmost, the French car was given sometwelve or thirteen minutes' start, which meant seven or eight milesto a high-powered automobile urged forward with the determinationMedenham himself was displaying. Marigny's chauffeur, therefore, musthave dashed through that Titanic cleft in the limestone at a speedutterly incompatible with his employer's excuse of sightseeing.Of course, it would be an easy matter for Marigny to enlist MissVanrenen's sympathies in the effort of a first-rate engine to conquerthe adverse gradient. She would hardly realize the rate of progress,and, from where she was seated, the speed indicator would be invisibleunless she leaned forward for the express purpose of reading it.Medenham was sure that the Mercury would catch the Du
Vallon longbefore Bristol was reached, but when the last ample fold of the bleakplateau spread itself in front, and his hunter's eyes could discern nocloud of dust lingering in the still air where the road dipped overthe horizon, he began to doubt, to question, to solve grotesqueproblems that were discarded ere they had well taken shape.
Oddly enough, there came no more expostulation from Mrs. Devar. Likethe majority of nervous people, she was quelled by the need of placingcomplete trust in one who understood his work. While Medenham wasstill searching the sky-line for signs of the vanished car, she didshow some interest in his quest. He felt, since he could not see, thatshe half rose and looked over his head, bent low behind the partialshelter afforded by a glass screen. Then she settled back in the seat,and drew a rug comfortably around her knees. For some reason, she wasstrangely content.
The incident supplied food for active thought. So she felt safe! Thatwhich she dreaded as the result of a too strenuous pursuit could notnow happen! Then what was it? Medenham swept aside the fantasy thatMrs. Devar knew the country well enough to be able to say preciselywhen and where she might be sure of his failure to snatch Cynthia fromthat hidden evil the nature of which he could only guess at. Her worldwas the artificial one of hotels, and shops, and numbered streets--inthe real world, of which the lonely wastes of the Mendips provided nomeager sample, she was a profound ignoramus, a fat little automatonequipped with atrophied senses. But she blundered badly in composingherself so cozily for the remainder of the run to Bristol. Medenhamhad dwelt many months at a time in lands where just such simpleindications of mood on the part of man or beast had meant to him allthe difference between life and death. So now, if ever, he becamedoubly alert; his eyes were strained, eager, peering; his body stillas the wild creatures which he knew to be skulking unseen behind manya rock and grass tuft passed on the way.
This desolate land, given over to stones interspersed with patches ofwiry grass on which browsed some hardy sheep, resembled a disturbedocean suddenly made solid. It was not level, but ran in long, almostregular undulations. In the trough between two of these rounded ridgesthe road bifurcated, the way to Bristol trending to the left, and aless important thoroughfare glancing off to the right.
There was no sign-post, but a child could scarce have erred if askedto choose the track that led to a big town. Medenham, having consultedthe map earlier in the day, swung to the left without hesitation. Thecar literally flew up the next incline, and the dark lines of treesand hedges in the distance proved that tilled land was being neared.Now he was absolutely sure that he had managed, somehow, to miss theDu Vallon--unless, indeed, its redoubtable mechanism was of a caliberhe 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 thatMrs. 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 leftby the last shower of rain. He sprang out and examined the marks ofrecent traffic. Marigny's vehicle carried non-skid covers with studsarranged in peculiar groups, and their imprint was plain to be seen.But they had followed that road once only. It was impossible todetermine off-hand whether they had come or gone, but, if they camefrom Bristol, then most certainly they had not returned.
Medenham took nothing for granted. Dusk was advancing, and he mustmake no mistake at this stage. He ran the Mercury slowly ahead, nottaking his gaze off the telltale signs. At last he found what he waslooking for. The broad scars left by a heavy cart crossed the studs,and had crossed after the passage of the car. Thus he eliminated thevagaries 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 beanswerable for the manner of his speech.
"I mean to find Miss Vanrenen," he said. "Pray let that suffice forthe hour. Any further explanation you may require can be given atBristol and in her presence."
Mrs. Devar began to sob. He heard her, and of all things that he hatedit was to become the cause of a woman's tears. But his lips closed ina thin seam, and he drove fast to the fork in the roads. Another halthere, and the briefest scrutiny showed that his judgment had noterred. The Du Vallon had passed this point twice. If it came fromBristol in the first instance it had gone now to some unfamiliarwilderness that skirted the whole northeastern slopes of the Mendips.
He leaped back to the driving seat, and Mrs. Devar made one moredespairing effort to regain control of a situation that had slippedfrom 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 careof 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 theroad surface quickly became very rough, and it needed all his skill toguide his highly-strung car over its inequalities without inflictingan injury that might prove disastrous.
His only consolation was provided by the knowledge that the risk to astout Mercury was as naught compared with the tortures endured by aFrench-built racer, with its long wheel-base and low chassis. After acouple of miles of semi-miraculous advance his respect for Smith'scapability as a driver increased literally by leaps and bounds.
But the end was nearer than he thought. On reaching the top of oneof those seemingly interminable land-waves, he saw a blurred objectin the hollow. Soon he distinguished Cynthia's fawn-colored dustcloak, and his heart throbbed exultantly when the girl fluttered ahandkerchief 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. Theyhave lost their way and met with some accident. How glad I am that Idid not insist on your making straight for Bristol!"
Her unparalleled impudence won his admiration. Such a woman, hethought, was worthy of a better fate than that which put her in theposition of a bought intriguer. But Cynthia was near, waving her handsgleefully, and executing a nymph-like thanksgiving dance on a strip ofturf by the roadside, so Medenham's views of Mrs. Devar's previousactions were tempered by conditions extraordinarily favorable to herat the moment.
She seemed to be aware instinctively of the change in his sentimentswrought by sight of Cynthia. It was in quite a friendly tone that shecried:
"Count Edouard is there; but where is his man?... Something seriousmust 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 waythe car went!"
