Cynthia's Chauffeur Part 42

The Earl helped himself to a whisky and soda. His egotism was severely shaken. Who would have thought that a pillar of the state like Scarland would approve of this Vanrenen girl as a match for George, even in jest? But he had the good sense to steer clear of explanations. When he found his voice it was to swear at the quality of the whisky.

Medenham, meanwhile, had rushed into the hall. He expected to find Dale there, but saw no one except the suave footman on duty. The man opened the door.

"Dale is outside, in the car, my lord," he said.

"In the car!" That meant the bursting of a meteor in a blue sky.

Sure enough, there stood the Mercury, dusty and panting, but seemingly gathering breath for another mighty effort if necessary.

"Come in!" shouted Medenham, on whom the first strong shadow of impending disaster had fallen as soon as he heard those ill-omened words "in the car."

Dale scrambled to the pavement and walked stiffly up the steps, being weary after an almost unbroken run of one hundred and eighty miles.

He nodded to the Mercury, and the footman rang for a pageboy to mount guard. Medenham led the way into a small anteroom and switched on the light.

"Now," he said.

"Mr. Vanrenen kem to Chester last night in Simmond's car, my lord.

This mornin' he sent for me an' sez 'who are you?' 'The chauffeur, sir,' sez I. 'Whose chauffeur?' sez he. 'Yours for the time,' sez I, bein' sort of ready for him. 'Well, you can get,' sez he. 'Get what?'

sez I. 'Get out,' sez he. Of course, my lord, I knew well enough what he meant, but I wanted to have it straight, an' I got it."

Dale's style of speech was elliptical, though he might have been surprised if told so. For once, Medenham wished he was a loquacious man.

"Was nothing else said?" he asked. "No message from--anyone? No reason given? What brought Simmonds to Chester?"

"Mr. Vanrenen picked him up in Bristol at 4 a.m. yesterday, my lord.

Simmonds made out that that there Frenchman, Monsieur Marinny" (Dale prided himself on a smattering of French), "had pitched a fine ole tale about you. In fact, the bearings got so hot at Symon's Yat that Simmonds chucked his job till Mr. Vanrenen sort of apologized."

"Can you be specific, Dale? You are hard to follow."

"Well, my lord, I _could_ do with a drink. It's a long road that stretches between here an' Chester, an' I left there at ten o'clock this morning, runnin' through any Gord's quant.i.ty of traps, an' all."

Medenham did not smile. He touched a bell, and found that Dale's specific was a bottle of beer.

"I never set eyes on Miss Cynthia," continued the chauffeur, his wits quickening under the soothing draught. "Another lady kem out an'

looked me up an' down. 'Yes, that is the car,' she said, an' with that I remembered seein' her at San Remo. Mrs. Devar seemed as if she wanted to say somethink, but she daren't, because Mr. Vanrenen's eye was on her. He made no bones about it, but told me to hike back to London the minnit Simmonds got the carrier off."

"I am quite clear on that point. What I really want to know is the reason behind Simmonds's statement about Count Marigny's tale-pitching, as you term it."

"Oh, of course Mr. Vanrenen didn't _say_ anythink. Simmonds was what you call puttin' two an' two together. From what Mr. Vanrenen arsked him it was easy enough to get at the Frenchman's dirty tricks."

"Tell me how Simmonds put it?" said Medenham, with the patience of a great anger. Dale scratched the back of his ear.

"For one thing, my lord, Mr. Vanrenen wanted to know if you was reelly a viscount. It was a long time before Simmonds could get him to believe that the accident in Down Street wasn't a put up job. Then, he was sure you stopped in Symon's Yat just in order to throw Mr. Marinny off your track. Simmonds is no fool, my lord, an' he guesses that the Frenchman brought Mr. Vanrenen hot-foot from Paris so as to--to----"

Dale grinned, and sought inspiration in the bottom of an empty gla.s.s.

"Well, my lord, excuse _me_," he said, "but you know what I mean."

Medenham completed the sentence.

"So as to prevent me from marrying Miss Cynthia."

"Exactly what Simmonds an' me said, my lord."

"He will not succeed, Dale."

"I never thought he would. Once your lords.h.i.+p is set on a thing, well, that thing occurs."

"Thank you. Good-night!"

Medenham did not feel equal to facing the men in the smoking-room again. He went out, walked up Oxford Street and across the park, and reached his room about midnight. Next day he devoted himself to work.

In view of the new and strange circ.u.mstances that had arisen he believed confidently that Cynthia would reply to his letter by return of post, and there should be no chance of delay, because she meant to stay two days at Windermere, making that town the center of excursions through lakeland.

While the son was seeking forgetfulness in cla.s.sifying a collection of moths and night flies caught during a week at La Turbie, the father found occupation in prosecuting diligent inquiries into the social and financial standing of Peter Vanrenen. As a result, the Earl visited Lady St. Maur, and, as a further result, Lady St. Maur wrote a very biting and sarcastic note to "My dear Millicent." Moreover, she decided not to press her nephew to visit her at present.

Next morning, Medenham was up betimes. He heard the early postman's knock, and Tomkinson in person brought the letters.

"There's nothink in the name of Fitzroy, my lord," said he, having been warned in that matter overnight.

Medenham took his packet with the best grace possible, trying to a.s.sure himself that Cynthia had written at a late hour and had missed the first London mail in consequence. Glancing hurriedly through the correspondence, however, his glance fell on a letter bearing the Windermere postmark. It was addressed, in an unfamiliar hand, to "Viscount Medenham," and the writing was bold, well-formed, and business-like. Then he read:

SIR--My daughter received a note from you this morning, and she was about to answer it when I informed her that she was communicating with a person who had given her an a.s.sumed name. I also asked her, as a favor, to permit me to reply in her stead. Now, I have this to say--Miss Vanrenen does not know, and will never know from me, the true nature of the trick you played on her. You bear the label of a gentleman, so it is my earnest hope--indeed, my sincere belief--that you will respect the trust she placed in you, and not expose her to the idle chatter of clubs and scandal-spreading drawing-rooms. During two days I have been very bitter against you. To-day I take a calmer view, and, provided that neither my daughter nor I ever see or hear of you again, I shall be willing to credit that you acted more in a spirit of youthful caprice than from any foul desire to injure the good repute of one who has done no harm to you or yours.

I am, Yours truly, PETER VANRENEN.

Medenham read and reread this harsh letter many times. Then, out of brooding chaos, leaped one fiery question--where was Marigny?

The gate which Cynthia's father had shut and bolted in his face did not frighten him. He had leaped a wall of bra.s.s and triple steel when he won Cynthia Vanrenen's love in the guise of an humble chauffeur, so it was unbelievable that the barrier interposed by a father's misguided wrath should prove unsurmountable.

But Marigny! He wanted to feel his fingers clutching that slender throat, to see that pink and white face empurple and grow black under their strain, and it was all-important that the scoundrel should be brought to book before the Vanrenens returned to London. He gave a pa.s.sing thought to Mrs. Leland, it was true. If she shared with Vanrenen the silly little secret of his ident.i.ty, it was beyond comprehension that she should let her friend hold the view that he (Medenham) was merely an enterprising blackguard.

Still, these considerations were light as thistle-down compared with the need of finding Marigny. He and Dale began to hunt London for the Frenchman. But they had to deal with a wary bird, who would not break covert till it suited his own convenience. And then, the sublime cheek of the man! On the Friday morning, when Medenham rose with a fixed resolve to obtain the services of a private detective, he received this note:

DEAR VISCOUNT MEDENHAM--I have a notion, as our mutual acquaintance Mr. Vanrenen would say (Do you know him? Now that I consider the matter, I think not), that you are anxious to meet me. We have things to discuss, have we not?

Well, then I await you at the above address.

Yours to command, EDOUARD MARIGNY.

CHAPTER XIV

--AND GOOD JUDGMENT YIELDS TO FOLLY

At any other moment the tone of confidence underlying the effrontery of this letter would certainly have revealed its presence to a brain more than ordinarily acute. But in the storm and stress of his rage against G.o.ds and men, Medenham did not wait to ponder subtleties of expression. No matter what the hidden reason that inspired Marigny's pen, it was enough for Medenham to know that at last that arch-plotter and very perfect rascal was within his reach. He breakfasted in a fury of haste, crammed on a hat, and rushed away, meaning to drive in a cab to the hotel in Northumberland Avenue from which Marigny wrote.