Cynthia's Chauffeur Part 34

"I may as well take that, too," he said offhandedly.

"Is Viscount Medenham also in your party?" inquired the bookkeeper.

"Yes."

Again no demur was raised, since the Earl's repeated demands for information as to Miss Vanrenen's whereabouts showed that some sort of link must exist between him and the missing tourists.

Medenham sat in his car outside and read:

MY DEAR GEORGE--If this reaches you, please oblige me by returning to town at once. Your aunt is making a devil of a fuss, and is most unpleasant. I say no more now, since I am not sure that you will be in Hereford before we meet.

Yours ever, F.

"I can see myself being very angry with Aunt Susan," he growled in the first flush of resentment against the unfairness of her att.i.tude.

But that phase soon pa.s.sed. His mind dwelt rather on Lady St. Maur's bland amazement when she encountered Cynthia. He could estimate with some degree of precision her ladys.h.i.+p's views regarding the eighty millions of citizens of the United States; had she not said in his hearing that "American society was evidently quite English--but with the head cut off?"

That, and a sarcastic computation as to the difference between Ten Thousand and Four Hundred, const.i.tuted her knowledge of America.

Still, he made excuses for her. It was no new thing for an aristocracy to be narrow-minded. Horace, that fine gentleman, "hated the vulgar crowd," and Nicolo Machiavelli, fifteen centuries later, denounced the n.o.bles of Florence for their "easy-going contempt of everything and everybody"; so Lady St. Maur had plenty of historical precedent for the coining of cheap epigrams.

The one person Medenham was really bitter against was Millicent Porthcawl. _She_ had met Cynthia; _she_ herself must have frowned at the lying innuendoes written from Bournemouth; it would give him some satisfaction to tell Cynthia that the Porthcawl _menage_ ought not to figure on her visiting list. But there! Cynthia was too generous-minded even to avenge her wrongs, though well able to deal with the Millicents and Mauds and Susans if they dared be spiteful.

Then the coming of Dale with various leather bags roused him from the reverie induced by his father's curt missive, and he laughed at the discovery that he was fighting Cynthia's battles already.

The Mercury was raising a good deal of dust in the neighborhood of Whitchurch when its occupants noticed a pair of urchins perched on a gate, signaling frantically. It pleased Medenham to mystify Dale, who was, if possible, more taciturn than ever since those heart-searching experiences at Gloucester and Hereford.

He pulled up some fifty yards or more down the road.

"You saw those boys?" he said.

"Yes, my lord, but they're only having a game."

"Nothing of the sort. Skip along and ask them if they have found out the answer. If they say 'a day and five-sevenths,' hand them a s.h.i.+lling each. Any other reply will be wrong. Don't talk. Just run there and back, and pay only on a day and five-sevenths."

Dale ran. Soon he was in his seat again.

"I gev' 'em a bob each, my lord," he announced, grave as an owl.

While they were running slowly down the winding lane that led to the Yat Medenham determined to make sure of his ground with reference to Mrs. Devar.

"I suppose you left no room for doubt as to my ident.i.ty in the mind of the lady to whom you spoke over the telephone last night?" he inquired.

"None whatever, my lord. She wormed it out of me."

"Did you mention the Earl?"

"Like an ijjit, I began by giving his lords.h.i.+p's name. It was my only chanst, I couldn't get to the post-office nohow. Why, I was ordered to bed at eight o'clock, so's his lords.h.i.+p could smoke in peace, as he said."

"Then my father was determined to stop you from communicating with me, if possible?"

"If his lords.h.i.+p knew that I crep' down a back stairs to the telephone I do believe he'd have set about me with a poker," said Dale grimly.

"Strange!" mused Medenham, with eyes now more intent on the hotel than on the road. "Influences other than Aunt Susan's must be at work. My father would never have rushed off in a fever from town merely because of some ill-natured gossip in a letter from Lady Porthcawl."

His mind flew to the Earl's allusions to Marigny, and it occurred to him then that the latter had used his father's name at Bristol. He turned to Dale again.

"Before this business is ended I shall probably find it necessary to kick a Frenchman," he said.

"Make it two of 'em, my lord, an' let me take it out of the other one," growled Dale.

"Well, there _is_ a bottle-holder," said Medenham, thinking of Devar, "a short, fat fellow, an Englishman, but a most satisfactory subject for a drop kick."

"Say when, my lord, an' I'll score a goal with him."

Dale seemed to be speaking feelingly, but his master paid slight heed to him then. A girl in muslin, wearing a rather stylish hat--now, where did Cynthia get a hat?--had just sauntered to that end of the hotel's veranda which gave a glimpse of the road.

"Make yourself comfortable in one of the cottages hereabouts," was Medenham's parting instruction to his man. "I don't suppose the car will be needed again to-day, but you might refill the petrol tank--on the off chance."

"Yes--my lord."

Dale lifted his cap. The ostler who had helped in the cleaning of the car overnight was standing near the open doors of the coach-house. He might not have heard the words, but he certainly saw the respectful action. His eyes grew round, and his lips pursed to give vent to an imaginary whistle.

"_I_ knew," he told himself. "He's a toff, that's wot he is. Mum's the word, w.i.l.l.yum. Say nothink, 'specially to wimmen!"

Bowing low before his smiling G.o.ddess, Medenham produced the packet of letters. It happened that the unstamped note for Mrs. Devar lay uppermost, and Cynthia guessed some part, at least, of its contents.

"Poor Monsieur Marigny!" she cried. "I fear he had a cheerless evening in Hereford. This is from him. I know his handwriting.... While father and I were in Paris he often sent invitations for fixtures at the Velo--once for a coach-drive to Fontainebleau. I was rather sorry I missed _that_."

Medenham thanked her in his heart for that little pause. No printed page could be more legible than Cynthia's thought-processes. How delightful it was to feel that her unspoken words were mirrored in his own brain!

But these lover-like beat.i.tudes were interrupted by a slight shriek.

She had glanced curiously at a postmark, ripped open an envelope, and was reading something that surprised her greatly.

"Well, of all the queer things!" she cried. "Here's father in London.

He started from Paris yesterday afternoon, and found he had just time to send me a line by paying a special postal fee at Paddington....

What?... Mrs. Leland going to join us at Chester!... Wire if I get this!..."

She reread the letter with heightened color. Medenham's heart sank to his boots while he watched her. Whosoever Mrs. Leland might be--and Cynthia's first cry of the name sent a shock of recognition through him--it was fully evident that the addition of another member to the party would straightway shut him out of his Paradise. Mrs. Devar, in the role of guardian, had been disposed of satisfactorily, but "Mrs.

Leland" was more than a doubtful quant.i.ty. For some kindred reason, perhaps, Cynthia chose to turn and look at the sparkling Wye when next she spoke.

"I don't see why Mrs. Leland's unexpected appearance should make any real difference to our tour," she said in the colorless tone of one who seeks rather than imparts conviction. "There is plenty of room in the car. We must take the front seat in turn, that is all."

"May I ask who Mrs. Leland is?" he asked, and, if his voice was ominously cold, it may be urged in extenuation that in matters affecting Cynthia he was no greater adept at concealing his thoughts than the girl herself.

"An old friend of ours," she explained hurriedly. "In fact, her husband was my father's partner till he died, some years ago. She is a charming woman, quite a cosmopolitan. She lives in Paris 'most all the time, but I fancied she was at Trouville for the summer. I wonder...."

She read the letter a third time. Drooping lids and a screen of heavy eyelashes veiled her eyes, and when the fingers holding that disturbing note rested on the rail of the veranda again, still those radiant blue eyes remained invisible, and the eloquent eyebrows were not arched in laughing bewilderment but straightened in silent questioning.