The Earl’s title-borrowing from Shakespeare was certainly justified by current events, for Dromio of Ephesus and Dromio of Syracuse, to say nothing of their masters, were no bad prototypes of the chief actors in this Bristol comedy.

Simmonds, not knowing who might have it in mind to investigate the latest defect in his car, decided it would be wise to disappear until Viscount Medenham was well quit of Bristol. By arrangement with Dale, therefore, he picked up the latter soon after the Mercury was turned over to Medenham’s hands; in effect, the one chauffeur took the other on a ’bus-driver’s holiday. Dale was free until two o’clock. At that hour he would depart for Hereford and meet his master, with arrangements made for the night as usual; meanwhile, the day’s programme included a pleasant little run to Bath and back.

It was a morning that tempted to the road, but both men had risen early, and a pint of bitter seemed to be an almost indispensable preliminary. From Bristol to Bath is no distance to speak of, so a slight dallying over the beer led to an exchange of recent news.

Dale, it will be remembered, was of sporting bent, and he told Simmonds gleefully of his successful bet at Epsom.

“Five golden quidlets his lordship shoved into me fist at Brighton,” he chortled. “Have you met Smith, who is lookin’ after the Frenchman’s Du Vallon? No? Well, he was there, an’ his goggles nearly cracked when he sawr the money paid—two points over the market price, an’ all.”

“Sometimes one spots a winner by chanst,” observed Simmonds judicially. “An’ that reminds me. Last night a fella tole me there was a good thing at Kempton to-day.... Now, what was it?”

Dale instantly became a lexicon of weird-sounding words, for the British turf is exceedingly democratic in its pronunciation of the classical and foreign names frequently given to racehorses. His stock of racing lore was eked out by reference to a local paper; still Simmonds scratched an uncertain pate.

“Pity, too!” he said at last. “This chap had it from his nevvy, who married the sister of a housemaid at Beckhampton.”

Dale whistled. Here was news, indeed. Beckhampton! the home of “good things.”

“Is that where it comes from?”

“Yes. Something real hot over a mile.”

“Can’t you think? Let’s look again at the entries.”

“Wait a bit,” cried Simmonds. “I’ve got it now. Second horse from the top of the column in to-morrow’s entries in yesterday’s Sportsman.”

Dale understood exactly what the other man meant, and, so long as he understood, the fact may suffice for the rest of the world.

“Tell you wot,” he suggested eagerly, “when you’re ready we’ll just run to the station an’ arsk the bookstall people for yesterday’s paper.”

The inquiry, the search, the triumphant discovery, the telegraphing of the “information” and a sovereign to Tomkinson in Cavendish Square—“five bob each way” for each of the two—all these things took time, and time was very precious to Dale just then. Unhappily, time is often mute as to its value, and Bath is really quite close to Bristol.

The choice secret of the Beckhampton stable was safely launched—in its speculative element, at any rate—and Dale was about to seat himself beside Simmonds, when an astonished and somewhat irate old gentleman hooked the handle of an umbrella into his collar and shouted:

“Confound you, Dale! What are you doing here, and where is your master?”

Dale’s tanned face grew pale, his ears and eyes assumed the semblance of a scared rabbit’s, and the power of speech positively failed him.

“Do you hear me, Dale?” cried the Earl, that instant alighted from a cab. “I am asking you where Viscount Medenham is. If he has gone to town, why have you remained in Bristol?”

“But his lordship hasn’t gone to London, my lord,” stuttered Dale, finding his voice at last, and far too flustered to collect his wits, though he realized in a dazed way that it was his duty to act exactly as Viscount Medenham would wish him to act in such trying circumstances.

And, indeed, many very clever people might have found themselves sinking in some such unexpected quicksand and be not one whit less bemused than the miserable chauffeur. Morally, he had given the only possible answer that left open a way of escape, and he had formed a sufficiently shrewd estimate of the relations between his master and the remarkably good-looking young lady whom the said master was serving with exemplary diligence to fear dire consequences to himself if he became the direct cause of a broken idyl. The position was even worse if he fell back on an artistic lie. The Earl was a dour person where servants were concerned, and SalomÉ did not demand John the Baptist’s head on a salver with greater gusto than the autocrat of Fairholme would insist on Dale’s dismissal when he discovered the facts. Talk of the horned dilemma—here was an unfortunate asked to choose which bristle of a porcupine he would sit upon.

The mere presence of his lordship in Bristol betokened a social atmosphere charged with electricity—a phase of the problem that constituted the only clear item in Dale’s seething brain: it was too much for him; in sudden desperation he determined to stick to the plain truth.

He had to elect very quickly, for the peppery-tempered Earl would not brook delay.

“Not gone to London, you say? Then where the devil has he gone to? A gentleman at the hotel, a French gentleman, who said he had met these—these persons with whom my son is gadding about the country, told me that they had left Bristol this morning for London, because a car that was expected to meet them here had broken down.”

Suddenly his lordship, a county magistrate noted for his sharpness, glanced at Simmonds. He marched round to the front of the car and saw that it was registered in London. He waved an accusing umbrella in air.

“What car is this? Is this the motor that won’t go? It seems to have reached Bristol all right? Now, my men, I must have a candid tale from each of you, or the consequences may be most disagreeable. You, I presume,” and he lunged en tierce at Simmonds, “have an employer of some sort, and I shall make it my business——”

“This is my own car, my lord,” said Simmonds stiffly. He could be stubborn as any member of the Upper House when occasion served. “Your lordship needn’t use any threats. Just ask me what you like an’ I’ll answer, if I can.”

Fairholme, by no means a hasty man in the ordinary affairs of life, and only upset now by the unforeseen annoyances of an unusually disquieting mission, realized that he was losing caste. It was a novel experience to be rebuked by a chauffeur, but he had the sense to swallow his wrath.

“Perhaps I ought to explain that I am particularly anxious to see Lord Medenham,” he said more calmly. “I left London at eight o’clock this morning, and it is most irritating to have missed him by a few minutes. I only wish to be assured as to his whereabouts, and, of course, I have no reason to believe that any sort of responsibility for my son’s movements rests with you.”

“That’s all right, my lord,” said Simmonds. “Viscount Medenham was very kind to me last Wednesday. I had a first-rate job, and was on my way to the Savoy Hotel to take it up, when a van ran into me an’ smashed the transmission shaft. His lordship met me in Down Street, an’ offered to run my two ladies to Epsom an’ along the south coast for a day or two while I repaired damages. I was to turn up here—an’ here I am—but it suited his arrangements better to go on with the tour, an’ that is all there is to it. A bit of a joke, I call it.”

“Yes, my lord, that’s hit hexactly,” put in Dale, with a nervous eagerness that demanded the help of not less than two aspirates.

The Earl managed to restrain another outburst.

“Nothing to cavil at so far,” he said with forced composure. “The only point that remains is—where is Lord Medenham now?”

“Somewhere between here an’ Gloucester, my lord,” said Simmonds.

“Gloucester—that is not on the way to London!”

No reply; neither man was willing to bell the cat. Finding Simmonds a tough customer, Fairholme tackled Dale.

“Come, come, this is rather absurd,” he cried. “Fancy my son’s chauffeur jibbing at my questions! Once and for all, Dale, where shall I find Lord Medenham to-night?”

There was no escape now. Dale had to blurt out the fatal word:

“Hereford!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, my lord. I’m goin’ there with his lordship’s portmanteaux.”

The head of the Fitzroy clan turned to Simmonds again.

“Will you drive me to Gloucester?” he asked.

“No, my lord. I’m under contract to remain in Bristol five days.”

“Very well. Stop in Bristol, and be d—d to you. Is there any reason why you should not take me to pick up my son’s belongings? Then Dale and I can go to Hereford by train. Viscount Medenham is devilish particular about his linen. If I stick to his shirts I shall meet him sometime to-day, I suppose.”

Simmonds sought Dale’s counsel by an underlook, but that hapless sportsman could offer no suggestion, so the other made the best of a bad business.

“I’ll do that, of course, my lord,” he said with alacrity. “Just grab his lordship’s dressing-case from that porter and shove it inside,” he went on, eying Dale fiercely, well knowing that the whole collapse arose from a cause but too easily traced.

“No, no,” broke in the Earl, whose magisterial experiences had taught him the wisdom of keeping witnesses apart, “Dale comes with me. I want to sift this business thoroughly. Put the case in front. We can pile the other luggage on top of it. Now, Dale, jump inside. Your friend knows where to go, I expect.”

Thus did two bizarre elements intrude themselves into the natural order of things on that fine morning in the West of England. The very shortness of the road between Bristol and Bath apparently offered an insuperable obstacle to the passage of Simmonds’s car along it, and some unknown “chap,” whose “nevvy” had married the sister of a Beckhampton housemaid, became the predominating factor in a situation that affected the fortunes of several notable people.

For his part, Lord Fairholme gave no further thought to Marigny. It did not even occur to him it might be advisable to call again at the College Green Hotel, since Medenham had slept elsewhere, and Hereford was now the goal. Certainly, the Frenchman’s good fairy might have pushed her good offices to excess by permitting him to see, careering about Bristol with a pair of chauffeurs, the man whom he believed to be then on the way to London. But fairies are unreliable creatures, apt to be off with a hop, skip, and a jump, and, in any case, Marigny was writing explicit instructions to Devar, though he would have been far more profitably employed in lounging outside the hotel.

So everybody was dissatisfied, more or less, the quaking Dale more, perhaps, than any, and the person who had absolutely no shadow of care on his soul was Medenham himself, at that moment guiding the Mercury along the splendid highway that connects Bristol with Gloucester—taking the run leisurely, too, lest Cynthia should miss one fleeting glimpse of the ever-changing beauties of the Severn estuary.

During one of these adagio movements by the engine, Cynthia, who had been consulting a guidebook, leaned forward with a smile on her face.

“What is a lamprey?” she asked.

“A special variety of eel which has a habit of sticking to stones by its mouth,” said Medenham. Then he added, after a pause: “Henry the First was sixty-seven years of age when he died, so the dish of lampreys was perhaps blamed unjustly.”

“You have a good memory,” she retorted.

“Oh, is that in your book, Miss Vanrenen? Well, here is another fact about Gloucester. Alfred the Great held a Witenagemot there in 896. Do you know what a Witenagemot is?”

“Yes,” she said, “a smoking concert.”

Mrs. Devar invariably resented these bits of by-play, since she could no more extract their meaning than if they were uttered in Choctaw.

“Some very good people live in Gloucestershire,” she put in. “There are the——” She began to give extracts from Burke’s “Landed Gentry,” whereupon the speedometer index sprang to forty-five, and a noble fifteenth century tower soon lifted its stone lacework above the trees and spires of the ancient city.

Cynthia wished to obtain some photographs of old inns, so, when they had admired the cathedral, and shuddered at the memory of Richard the Third—who wrote at Gloucester the order to Brackenbury for the murder of the princes in the Tower of London—and smiled at Cromwell’s mordant wit in saying that the place had more churches than godliness when told of the local proverb, “As sure as God’s in Gloucester,” Medenham brought them to Northgate Street, where the New Inn—which is nearly always the most antiquated hostelry in an English country-town—supplied a fine example of massive timberwork, with courtyard and external galleries.

The light was so perfect that he persuaded Cynthia to stand in a doorway and let him take a picture. During the focusing interval, he suggested that the day’s route should be varied by leaving the coast road at Westbury and running through the Forest of Dean, where a secluded hotel in the midst of a real woodland would be an ideal place for luncheon.

She agreed. Something in his tone told her that Mrs. Devar’s consent to the arrangement had better be taken for granted. So they sped through the blossom-laden lanes of Gloucestershire to the leafy depths of the Forest, and saw the High Beeches, and the Old Beech, and the King’s Walk, and many of the gorgeous vistas that those twin artists Spring and Summer etched on the wooded undulations of one of Britain’s most delightful landscapes; as a fitting sequel to a run through fairyland they lunched at the Speech House Hotel, where once the skins of daring trespassers on the King’s preserves were wont to be nailed on the Court House door by the Verderers.

It was Cynthia who pointed the moral.

“There is always an ogre’s cave near the Enchanted Garden,” she said, “and those were surely ogerish days when men were flayed alive for hunting the King’s deer.”

It is not to be wondered at if they dawdled somewhat by the way, when that way led past Offa’s Dyke, through Chepstow, and Tintern, and Monmouth, and Symon’s Yat. Indeed, Cynthia’s moods alternated between wide-eyed enjoyment and sheer regret, for each romantic ruin and charming countryside not only aroused her enthusiasm but evoked a longing to remain riveted to the spot. Yet she would not be a woman if there were not exceptions to this rule, as shall be seen in due course.

Mrs. Devar, perchance tempted by the word “Castle,” quitted the car at Chepstow, and climbed to the nail-studded oak door of one of the most perfect examples of a Norman stronghold now extant. Once committed to the rÔle of sightseer, she was compelled to adhere to it, and before the fourth court was reached, had she known the story, she would have sympathized with the pilgrim who did not boil the peas in his shoes of penance. Chepstow Castle is a splendid ruin, but its steep gradients and rough pavements are not fitted for stout ladies who wear tight boots.

To make matters worse, the feelings of Cynthia’s chaperon soon became as sore as her toes. The only feature of Marten’s Tower that appealed to her was its diabolical ingenuity in providing opportunities for that interfering chauffeur to assist, almost to lift, Cynthia from one mass of fallen masonry to another. Though she knew nothing of Henry Marten she reviled his memory. She heard “Fitzroy” telling her wayward charge that the reformer really hated Charles I. because the King called him “an ugly rascal” in public, and directed that he should be turned out of Hyde Park; the words supplied a cue.

“Pity kings are not as powerful nowadays,” she snapped. “The presumption of the lower orders is becoming intolerable.”

“Unfortunately, Marten retaliated by signing the King’s death warrant,” said Medenham.

“Of course. What else could one expect from a person of his class?”

“But Sir Henry Marten was a celebrated judge, and the son of a baronet, and he married a rich widow—these are not the prevalent democratic vices,” persisted Medenham.

“You must have sat up half the night reading the guidebook,” she cried in vexation at her blunder.

Cynthia laughed so cheerfully that Mrs. Devar thought she had scored. Medenham left it at that, and was content. Both he and Cynthia knew that lack of space forbade indulgence in such minor details of history on the part of the book’s compiler.

Another little incident heated Mrs. Devar to boiling-point. Cynthia more than once hinted that, if tired, she might wait for them in the lowermost court, where a fine tree spread its shade over some benches, but the older woman persisted in visiting every dungeon and scrambling up every broken stair. The girl took several photographs, and had reached the last film in a roll, when the whim seized her to pose Medenham in front of a Norman arch.

“You look rather like a baron,” she said gleefully. “I wish I could borrow some armor and take you in character as the gentleman who built this castle. By the way, his name was Fitz-something-or-other. Was he a relation?”

“Fitz Osborne,” said Medenham.

“Ah, yes. Fitzroy means King’s son, doesn’t it?”

“I—er—believe so.”

“Well, I can imagine you scowling out of a vizor. It would suit you admirably.”

“But I might not scowl.”

“Oh, yes, you would. Remember this morning. Just force yourself to think for a moment that I am Monsieur——”

She stopped abruptly.

“A little more to the left, please—and turn your face to the sun. There, that is capital.”

“Why should Fitzroy scowl at the recollection of Count Edouard?” demanded Mrs. Devar, her eyes devouring the telltale blush that suffused the girl’s face and neck.

“Only because the Count wished to supplant him as our chauffeur,” came the ready answer.

“I thought Monsieur Marigny’s offer a very courteous one.”

“Undoubtedly. But as I had to decide the matter I preferred to travel in a car that was at my own disposal.”

Mrs. Devar dared not go farther. She relapsed into a sulky silence. She said not a word when Cynthia occupied the front seat for the climb through Chepstow’s High Street, and when the girl turned to call her attention to the view from the crest of the famous Wyndcliff she was nodding asleep!

Cynthia told Medenham, and there was a touch of regret in her voice.

“Poor dear,” she said in an undertone, “the Castle was too much for her, and the fresh air has made her drowsy.”

He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and instantly made up his mind to broach a project that he had thought out carefully since his quarrel with the Frenchman.

“You mean to stay in Hereford during the whole of to-morrow, Miss Vanrenen?” he asked.

“Yes. Somehow, I don’t see myself scampering across the map on the British Sabbath. Besides, I am all behindhand with my letters, and my father will be telegraphing something emphatic if I don’t go beyond ‘Much love’ on a picture postcard.”

“Symon’s Yat is exceptionally beautiful, and there is a capital little hotel there. The Wye runs past the front door, the boating is superb, and there will be a brilliant moon after dinner.”

“And the answer is?”

“That we could run into Hereford before breakfast, leaving you plenty of time to attend the morning service at the cathedral.”

Cynthia did not look at him or she would have seen that he was rather baronial in aspect just then. Sad to relate, they were speeding down the Wyndcliff gorge without giving it the undisturbed notice it merited.

“I have a kind of notion that Mrs. Devar wouldn’t catch on to the boating proposition,” she said thoughtfully.

“Perhaps not, but the river takes a wide bend there, and she could see us from the hotel veranda all the time.”

“Guess it can’t be fixed up, anyhow,” she sighed.

Twice had she lapsed into the idioms of her native land. What, then, was the matter with Cynthia that she had forgotten her self-imposed resolution to speak only in that purer English which is quite as highly appreciated in New York as in London?

It was Saturday afternoon, and they overtook and passed a break-load of beanfeasters going to Tintern. There is no mob so cruelly sarcastic as the British, and it may be that the revelers in the break envied the dusty chauffeur his pretty companion. At any rate, they greeted the passing of the car with jeers and cat-calls, and awoke Mrs. Devar. It is a weakness of human nature to endeavor to conceal the fact that you have been asleep when you are supposed to be awake, so she leaned forward now, and asked nonchalantly:

“Are we near Hereford?”

“No,” said Cynthia. “We have a long way to go yet.” She paused. “Are you really very tired?” she added, as an afterthought.

“Yes, dear. The air is positively overpowering.”

There was another pause.

“Ah, well,” sighed the girl, “we shall have a nice long rest when we stop for tea at—at—what is the name of the place?”

“Symon’s Yat.”

Medenham’s voice was husky. Truth to tell, he was rather beside himself. He had played for a high stake and had nearly won. Even now the issue hung on a word, a mere whiff of volition: and if he knew exactly how much depended on that swing of the balance he might have been startled into a more earnest plea, and spoiled everything.

“But that will throw us late in arriving at Hereford,” said Mrs. Devar.

“Does it really matter? We shall be there all day to-morrow.”

“No, it is of no consequence, though Count Edouard said he would meet us there.”

“And I refused to pledge myself to any arrangement. In fact, I would much prefer that his Countship should scorch on to Liverpool or Manchester, or wherever he happens to be going.”

“Oh, Cynthia! And he going out of his way to be so friendly and agreeable!”

“Well, perhaps that was an unkind thing to say. What I mean is that we must feel ourselves at liberty to depart from a cut-and-dried schedule. Half the charm of wandering through England in an automobile is in one’s freedom from timetables.”

Back dropped Mrs. Devar, and Medenham recovered sufficient self-control to point out to Cynthia her first glimpse of the gray walls that vie with Fountains Abbey and Rievaulx for pride of place as the most beautiful ruin in England.

Certainly those old Cistercians knew how and where to build their monasteries. They had the true sense of beauty, whether in site or design, and at Tintern they chose the loveliest nook of a lovely valley. Cynthia silently feasted her vision on each new panorama revealed by the winding road, and ever the gray Abbey grew more distinct, more ornate, more completely the architectural gem of an entrancing landscape.

But disillusion was at hand.

Rounding the last bend of the descent, the Mercury purred into the midst of a collection of horsed vehicles and frayed motors. By some unhappy chance the whole countryside seemed to have chosen Tintern as a rendezvous that Saturday. The patrons of a neighboring hotel overflowed into the roadway; the brooding peace of the dead-and-gone monks had fled before this invasion; instead of memories of mitered abbots and cowled friars there were the realities of loud-voiced grooms and porkpie-eating excursionists.

“Please drive on,” whispered Cynthia. “I must see Tintern another time.”

Although Medenham hoped to consume a precious hour or more in showing her the noble church, the cloisters, the chapter-house, the monks’ parlor, and the rest of the stone records of a quiet monastic life, he realized to the full how utterly incongruous were the enthusiastic trippers with their surroundings. The car threaded their ranks gingerly, and was soon running free along the tree-shaded road to Monmouth.

Happily, that delightful old town was sufficiently familiar to him in earlier days that he was now able to supplement the general knowledge of its past gleaned already by the girl’s reading. He halted in front of the Welsh Gate on Monnow Bridge, and told her that although the venerable curiosity dates back to 1270 it is nevertheless the last defensive work in Britain in which serious preparations were made for civil war, as it was expected that the Chartists would march from Newport to attack Monmouth Jail in 1839.

“Six hundred years,” mused Cynthia aloud. “If there are sermons in stones what a history is pent in these!”

“And how greatly it would differ from the accepted versions,” laughed Medenham.

“Do we never know the truth, then?”

“Oh, yes, if we are actually mixed up in some affair of worldwide importance, but that is precisely the reason why the actors remain dumb.”

Oddly enough, this was the first of Medenham’s utterances that Mrs. Devar approved of.

“Evidently you have moved in high society, Fitzroy,” she chimed in.

“Yes, madam,” he said. “More than once, when in a hurry, I have run madly through Mayfair.”

“Oh, nonsense!” she cried, resenting the studied civility of the “madam” and ruffled by the quip, “you speak of Mayfair, yet I don’t suppose you really know where it is.”

“I shall never forget where Down Street is, I assure you,” he said cheerfully.

“And pray, why Down Street in particular?”

“Because that is where I met Simmonds, last Wednesday, and arranged to take on his job.”

“In your mind, then, it figures as broken-down-street,” cooed Cynthia.

After that the Mercury crossed the Monnow, and Mrs. Devar muttered something about the mistake one made when one encouraged servants to be too familiar. But Cynthia was not to be repressed. She was bubbling over with high spirits, and amused herself by telling Medenham that Henry V. was born at Monmouth and afterwards won the battle of Agincourt—“scraps of history not generally known,” she confided to him.

From the back of the car Mrs. Devar watched them with a hawklike intentness that showed how thoroughly those “forty winks” snatched while in the Wyndcliff had restored her flagging energies. Though it was absurd to suppose that Cynthia Vanrenen, daughter of a millionaire, a girl dowered with all that happy fortune had to give, would so far forget her social position as to flirt with the chauffeur of a hired car, this experienced marriage-broker did not fail to realize what a stumbling-block the dreadful person was in the path of Count Edouard Marigny.

For once in her life, “Wiggy” Devar forced herself to think clearly. She saw that “Fitzroy” was a man who might prove exceedingly dangerous where a girl’s susceptible heart was concerned. He had the address and semblance of a gentleman; he seemed to be able to talk some jargon of history and literature and art that appealed mightily to Cynthia; worst of all, he had undoubtedly ascertained, by some means wholly beyond her ken, that she and the Frenchman were in league. She was quite in the dark as to the cause of her son’s extraordinary behavior the previous evening, but she was beginning to suspect that this meddlesome Fitzroy had contrived, somehow or other, to banish Captain Devar as he had outwitted Marigny on the Mendips. Talented schemer that she was, she did not believe for a moment that Simmonds had told the truth at Bristol. She argued, with cold logic, that the man would not risk the loss of an excellent commission by bringing from London a car so hopelessly out of repair that it could not be made available under four or five days. But her increasing alarm centered chiefly in Cynthia’s attitude. If, by her allusion to a “cut-and-dried schedule,” the girl implied a design to depart from the tour planned in London, then the Count’s wooing became a most uncertain thing, since it was manifestly out of the question that he should continue to waylay them at stopping-places chosen haphazard during each day’s run.

So Mrs. Devar noted with a malignant eye each friendly glance exchanged by the couple in front, and listened to the snatches of their talk with a malevolence that was fanned to fury by their obvious heedlessness of her presence. She felt that the crisis called for decisive action. There was only one person alive to whose judgment Cynthia Vanrenen would bow, and Mrs. Devar began seriously to consider the advisability of writing to Peter Vanrenen.

If any lingering doubt remained in her mind as to the soundness of this view, it was dispelled soon after they reached Symon’s Yat. She was sitting in the inclosed veranda of a cozy hotel perched on the right bank of the Wye when Cynthia suddenly leaped up, teacup in hand, and looked down at the river.

“There are the duckiest little yachts I have ever seen skimming about on that stretch of water,” she cried over her shoulder. “The mere sight of them makes me taste all the dust I have swallowed between here and London. Don’t you think it would be real cute to remain here to-night and run into Hereford to-morrow after an early cup of tea?”

Cynthia need not have taken the trouble to avert her scarlet face from Mrs. Devar’s inquisitive eyes; indeed, Mrs. Devar herself was glad that her quick-witted and perhaps quick-tempered young friend had not surprised the wry smile that twisted her own lips.

“Just as you please, Cynthia,” said she amiably.

Then the girl resolutely crushed the absurd emotion that led her to shirk her companion’s scrutiny: she was so taken aback by this unexpected complaisance in a quarter where she was prepared for opposition that she turned and laid a grateful hand on the other woman’s arm.

“Now that is perfectly sweet of you,” she said softly. “I would just love to see that river by moonlight, and—and—I fancied you were a bit weary of the road. It wouldn’t matter if the country were not so wonderful, but when one has to screw one’s head round quickly or one misses a castle or a prize landscape, a hundred miles of that sort of thing becomes a strain.”

“This seems to be quite a restful place,” agreed Mrs. Devar. “Have you—er—told Fitzroy of the proposed alteration in our arrangements?”

Cynthia grew interested in the yachts again.

“No,” she said, “I’ve not mentioned it to him—yet.”

A maid-servant entered, and Cynthia inquired if the hotel could provide three rooms for her party.

The girl, a pretty Celt of the fair-haired type, said she was sure there was accommodation.

“Then,” said Cynthia, with what she felt to be a thoroughly self-possessed air, “please ask my chauffeur if he would like another cup of tea, and tell him to house the car and have our boxes sent in, as we shall stay here till half-past eight to-morrow morning.”

Mrs. Devar’s letter to Peter Vanrenen forthwith entered the category of things that must be done at the earliest opportunity. She wrote it before dinner, taking a full hour in the privacy of her room to compose its few carefully considered sentences. She posted it, too, and was confirmed in her estimate of its very real importance when she saw a muslined Cynthia saunter out and join “Fitzroy,” who happened to be standing on a tiny landing-stage near a boathouse.

Yet, so strangely constituted is human nature of the Devar variety, she would have given half the money she possessed if she could have recalled that letter an hour later. But His Majesty’s mails are inexorable as fate. A twopence-ha’penny stamp had linked Symon’s Yat and Paris, and not all Mrs. Devar’s world-worn ingenuity could sunder that link.