CHAPTER X

THE HIDDEN FOUNTS OF EVIL

It was a flushed and somewhat breathless Cynthia who ran into the

quiet country hotel at an hour when the Licensing Laws of Britain have

ordained that quiet country hotels shall be closed. But even the laws

of the Medes and Persians, which altered not, must have bulged a

little at times under the pressure of circumstances. The daughter of

an American millionaire could not be reported as "missing" without a

buzz of commotion being aroused in that secluded valley. As a matter

of fact, no one in the house dreamed of going to bed until her

disappearance was accounted for, one way or the other.

Mrs. Devar, now really woebegone, screamed shrilly at sight of her.

The lady's nerves were in a parlous condition--"on a raw edge" was her

own phrase--and the relief of seeing her errant charge again was so

great that the shriek merged into a sob.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she wept, "what a shock you have given me! I

thought you were gone!"

"Not so bad as that," was the contrite answer. Cynthia interpreted

"gone" as meaning "dead," and naturally read into the other woman's

anxiety her own knowledge of the disaster to the boat. "We had a bit

of an upset--that is all--and the bread always flops to the floor

buttered side down, doesn't it? So we had to struggle ashore on the

wrong bank. It couldn't be helped--that is, the accident couldn't--but

I ought not to have been on the river at such a late hour. Do forgive

me, dear Mrs. Devar!"

By this time the girl's left arm was around her friend's portly form;

in her intense eagerness to assuage Mrs. Devar's agitation she began

to stroke her hair with the disengaged hand. A deeply sympathetic

landlady, a number of servants, and most of the feminine guests in the

hotel--all the men were down on the quay--had gathered to murmur their

congratulations; but Mrs. Devar, dismayed by Cynthia's action, which

might have brought about a catastrophe, revived with phenomenal

suddenness.

"My dear child," she cried, extricating herself from the encircling

arm, "_do_ let me look at you! I want to make sure that you are not

injured. The boat upset, you say. Why, your clothes must be wringing

wet!"

Cynthia laughed. She had guessed why her chaperon wished to keep her

literally at arm's length. She spread her skirts with a quick gesture

that relieved an awkward situation.

"Not a drop on my clothes," she said gleefully. "The water just

touched the soles of my boots, but before you could say 'Jack

Robinson' Fitzroy had whisked me out of the skiff--and landed me on

dry land."

"You were in shallow water, then?" put in the smiling proprietress.

"Oh no, fairly deep. Fitzroy was up to his waist in the stream."

"And the boat upset?" came the amazed chorus.

"I didn't quite mean that. What actually happened was this. I

discovered that the hour was rather late, and Fitzroy was rowing down

stream at a great pace when some sunken thing, a tree-root he thinks,

caught the side of the boat and started a plank. I was so taken by

surprise that I should have sat right there and gone to the bottom

with the boat, but Fitzroy jumped overboard straight away and hiked me

out."

Ready-tongued Cynthia was beginning to find detailed explanation

rather difficult, and her speech reverted to the picturesque idioms of

her native land. It was the happiest ruse she could have adopted.

Everyone laughed at the notion of being "hiked out." None of her

hearers knew quite what it meant, yet it covered the requisite ground,

which was more than might have been achieved by explicit English.

"Where did the accident take place?" asked the landlady.

Cynthia was vague on this point, but when she told how the return

journey was made, the pretty Welsh waitress hit on a theory.

"In-deed to goot-ness, miss," she cried, "you wass be-tween the

Garren River an' Huntsham Bridge. It iss a bad place, so it iss,

however. Me an' my young man wass shoaled there once, we wass."

Cynthia felt that her face and neck had grown positively scarlet, and

she could have kissed the well-disposed landlady for entering on a

voluble disquisition as to the tricks played by the Wye on those

unaware of its peculiarities, especially at night. A general

conversation broke out, but Mrs. Devar, rapidly regaining her spirits

after enduring long hours of the horrible obsession that Medenham had

run off with her heiress, noted that telltale blush. At present her

object was to assist rather than embarrass, so with a fine air of

motherly solicitude she asked:

"Where did you leave Fitzroy?"

"He saw preparations being made to send boats in search of us, and he

went to stop them. Oh, here he is!"

Medenham entered, and the impulsive Mrs. Devar ran to meet him. Though

he had been in the river again only five minutes earlier, the walk up

a dust-laden path had covered his sopping boots with mud, and in the

not very powerful light of the hall, where a score or more of anxious

people were collected, it was difficult to notice that his clothes

were wet. But "Wiggy" Devar did not care now whether or not the story

told by Cynthia was true. With reaction from the nightmare that had

possessed her since ten o'clock came a sharp appreciation of the

extraordinarily favorable turn taken by events so far as she was

concerned. If a French count were to be supplanted by an English

viscount, what better opportunity of approving the change could

present itself?

"Mr. Fitzroy," she said in her shrill voice, "I can never thank you

sufficiently for the courage and resource you displayed in rescuing

Miss Vanrenen. You have acted most nobly. I am only saying now what

Mr. Vanrenen will say when his daughter and I tell him of your

magnificent behavior."

He reddened and tried to smile, though wishing most heartily that

these heroics, if unavoidable, had been kept for some other time

and place. He could not believe that Cynthia had exalted a not

very serious incident into a "rescue," yet she might be vexed if he

cheapened his own services. In any event, it was doubtful whether she

would wish her father to hear of the escapade until she told him

herself at the close of the tour.

"I am sure Miss Vanrenen felt safe while in my care," was all he dared

to say, but Cynthia promptly understood his perplexity and came to his

aid.

"Mrs. Devar thinks far more of our adventure than we do," she broke

in. "Our chief difficulty lay in finding the road. The only time I

felt worried was when you crossed the river to retrieve the ferryboat.

But surely I have caused enough excitement for to-night. You ought to

take some hot lemonade and go to bed."

A man who had walked up the hill from the boathouse with Medenham

laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

"Come along, old chap!" he cried. "You certainly want a hot draught of

some sort, and you must not hang about in those wet clothes."

"Yes," purred Mrs. Devar, "don't run the risk of catching cold,

Fitzroy. It would spoil everything if _you_ were laid up."

Her gracious manner almost deceived Medenham. During his years of

wandering he had come across unexpected good qualities in men from

whom he looked for naught but evil--was it the same with women? He

hoped so. Perhaps this scheming marriage-broker had shed her worldly

scales under the stress of emotion.

"You need have no fear that the car will not be waiting for you in the

morning, Mrs. Devar," he said, smiling frankly into her steel-gray

eyes. "Did you say half-past nine, Miss Vanrenen?" he asked, turning

to snatch one last look at Cynthia.

"Yes. Good-night--and thank you."

She offered her hand to him before them all. The touch of her cool

fingers was infinitely sweet, but when he strove to surprise some hint

of her thought in those twin pools of limpid light that were wont to

gaze at him so fearlessly he failed, for all the daring had fled from

Cynthia, and he knew--how Heaven and lovers alone can tell--that her

heart was beating with a fright she had not felt when he staggered

under the relentless pressure of the river while holding her in his

arms.

To the lookers-on the girl's outstretched hand was a token of

gratitude; to Medenham it carried an acknowledgment of that equality

which should reign between those who love. His head swam in a sudden

vertigo of delight, and he hurried away without uttering a word. There

were some, perhaps, who wondered; others who saw in his brusqueness

nothing more than the confusion of an inferior overwhelmed by the

kindly condescension of a young and charming mistress; but the one

who did fully and truly interpret the secret springs of his action

went suddenly white to the lips, and her voice was curiously low and

strained as she turned to Mrs. Devar.

"Come, dear," she murmured, "I am tired, it would seem; and you, you

must be quite worn out with anxiety."

"My darling child," gushed Mrs. Devar, "I should have been nearly dead

if I had not known that Fitzroy was with you, but he is one of those

men who inspire confidence. I refused to admit even to myself that

anything of evil consequence could happen to you while he was present.

How fortunate we were that day in town----"

The man who had suggested that the hotel pharmacist could dispense hot

drinks other than lemonade nudged an acquaintance.

"Our chauffeur friend has a rippin' nice job," he whispered.

"Wouldn't mind taking his billet myself--it 'ud be a change from

everlastin' goff. Hello! Where is he? I meant to----"

Medenham had gone, striding away up the hillside in a very frenzy

of happiness. Four days, and Cynthia as good as won! Was it possible,

then, that the disguised prince of the fairytale could be a

reality--that such romances might still be found in this gray old

world? Four days! He could not be deeper in love with Cynthia had he

known her four years, or forty, and he was certain now that he had

really loved her before he had been in her company four minutes.

But these rhapsodies were cut short by his arrival at the hotel

garage, with the displeasing discovery that no one named Dale had

reached Symon's Yat that evening, while the stolid fact stared him

in the face that his cherished Mercury demanded several hours of

hard-working attentions if it were to glisten and hum in its usual

perfection next morning.

"Queer thing," he said, thinking aloud rather than addressing the

stableman who had given this disconcerting news. "I have never before

known him fail; and I wired to Hereford early enough."

"Oh, he's in Hereford, is he?" inquired the man.

"He ought not to be, but he is, I fear."

"Then it'll be him who axed for ye on the telephone?"

"When?"

"It 'ud be somewheres about a quarter or half past eight. Lizzie tole

me after the old leddy kem up to see if you'd taken the car out."

Medenham's wits were alert enough now.

"I don't fully understand," he said. "What old lady, and why did she

come?"

"That's wot bothered me," was the reply. "Everybody knew that the

young leddy an' you were on the Wye: 'deed to goodness, some of us

thought you were in it. Anyways, it was long after ten when she----"

"You mean Mrs. Devar, I suppose--the older lady of the two who arrived

in my car?"

"Yes, that's her. She wanted to be sure the car wasn't gone, and

nothing would suit her but the key must be brought from the orfis an'

the coach-house door unlocked so's she could see it with her own eyes.

Well, Lizzie sez to me, 'That's funny, it is, because she watched they

two goin' on the river, and was in the box a long time telephonin' to

a shuffer called Dale, at Hereford.' Thinks I, 'It's funnier that the

shuffer who's here should be expectin' a chap named Dale,' but I said

nothink. I never does to wimmen. Lord luv yer, they'll twist a tale

twenty ways for Sundays to suit their own pupposes afterwards."

Lightning struck from a cloudless sky a second time that night at

Symon's Yat, and in its gleam was revealed the duplicity of Mrs.

Devar. Medenham could not guess the double significance of Dale's

message and failure to appear, but he was under no delusion now as

to the cause of those honeyed words. Dale had been indiscreet, had

probably blurted out his employer's title, and Mrs. Devar knew at

last who the chauffeur was whose interference had baffled her plans.

He laughed bitterly, but did not pursue the inquiry any further.

"Can you clean coachwork and brass?" he asked, stooping to unlock the

toolbox.

The stableman shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other. The hour

was past midnight, and the alarm raised at the hotel had already

robbed him of two hours' sleep.

"Hosses is more in my line," he answered gruffly.

"But if I give you half a sovereign perhaps you will not mind helping

me. I shall attend to the engine myself."

"'Arf a suv-rin did you say, mister?" came the panting question.

"Yes. Be quick! Off with your coat, and get busy. A man who can groom

a horse properly ought to be able to use a rubber and hose."

By two o'clock the Mercury was shining above and below. Thoroughly

weary, yet well satisfied with the day's record, Medenham went to

bed. He was up at seven, and meant to talk severely to Dale after

breakfast; then he found, by consulting a directory, that the small

hotel where his man had arranged to stay did not possess a telephone.

It was annoying, but he had the consolation of knowing that an

hour's slow run would bring him to Hereford and reunite him with his

sorely-needed baggage. He was giving a few finishing touches to the

car's toilette, when the Welsh waiting-maid hurried to the garage;

Miss Vanrenen wanted him at once.

She awaited him in the veranda of the hotel, which fronted the

southeast. A shower of June roses, pink and crimson and white,

bespangled the sloping roof and hid the square posts that supported

it, and a flood of vivid sunshine irradiated Cynthia as she leaned

over the low rail of the balcony and smiled a greeting. She presented

a picture that was a triumph of unconscious art, and her beauty

affected Medenham more than a deep draught of the strongest wine

ever vinted by man. Yesterday she was a charming girl, radiantly

good-looking, and likely to attract attention even in circles where

pretty women were plentiful as blackberries in a September thicket,

but to-day, in Medenham's eyes, she was a woodland sprite, an ethereal

creature cast in no mortal mold. So enthralled was he by the vision

that he failed to note her attire. She wore the muslin dress of the

previous night, and this, in itself, might have prepared him for what

was to come.

"Good-morning, Mr. Fitzroy," she said, with a fine attempt at

re-establishing those friendly relations which might reasonably exist

between the owner of a motor-car and its hirer, "how are you after

your strenuous labors of yesterday? I have heard all about you. Fancy

remaining out of bed till two o'clock! Couldn't that precious car of

yours be cleaned this morning, and by someone else?"

He found his tongue at that.

"Mercury obeys none but Jupiter," he said.

Her eyes met his fairly, and she laughed.

"That is the first conceited thing I have heard you say," she cried,

"and, by Jove, aren't you flying high?"

"Jupiter assumed disguises," he reminded her. "Once, when he peered

into an Olympian grove, he saw Io, and took the form of a youth so

that he might talk with her. He found her so lovable that he passed

many a pleasant hour in her company wandering on the banks of the

classic stream that flowed through the wood, and in those hours he was

not Jupiter but a boy, a boy very much in love. Every man has, or

ought to have, something of Jupiter, a good deal of the boy, in his

make-up."

He turned and looked at the Wye and its tree-shaded banks. Then he

faced Cynthia again, and his hands rested on the barrier that divided

them. For one mad instant he thought of vaulting it, and Cynthia read

his thought; she drew back in a panic. A less infatuated wooer than

Medenham might have noted that she seemed to fear interruption more

than any too impulsive action on his part.

"I sent for you to tell you that Mrs. Devar is ill," she said in a

flurry of words. "I am afraid she suffered more from the fright than I

imagined last night. Anyhow, she has asked me to let her remain here

to-day. You won't mind, I am sure, though it must be a bother not to

have your luggage. Can't you run in to Hereford and get it? I am quite

content to rest in this pretty place and write letters."

"I do honestly believe that Mrs. Devar is more frightened than ill,"

he said.

"Oh, she isn't making a fuss about it. Indeed, she was willing to go

to Hereford this afternoon if I particularly wanted to attend service

at the cathedral. I did, as a matter of fact, but it would be real

mean to insist on it after scaring the poor thing into a nervous

headache."

"The affair arranges itself admirably," he said. "At most cathedrals

there is an anthem, followed by a sermon by some eminent preacher,

about three o'clock. Write your letters this morning, or, better

still, climb to the top of the Yat and see the glorious view from the

top. Come back for lunch at one, and----"

"I'll see what Mrs. Devar thinks of it," broke in Cynthia, whose

cheeks were borrowing tints from the red roses and the white with

astonishing fluctuations of color. She ran off, more like Io, the

sylph, than ever, and Medenham stood there in a brown study.

"This sort of thing can't go on," he argued with himself. "At any

minute now I shall be taking her in my arms and kissing her, and that

will not be fair to Cynthia, who is proud and queenly, and who will

strive against the dictates of her own heart because it is not seemly

that she should wed her father's paid servant. So I must tell her,

to-day--perhaps during the run home from Hereford, perhaps to-night.

But, dash it all! that will break up our tour. One ought to consider

the world we live in; Cynthia will be one of its leaders, and it will

never do to have people saying that Viscount Medenham became engaged

to Cynthia Vanrenen while acting as the lady's chauffeur during a

thousand-mile run through the West of England and Wales. Now, what

_am_ I to do?"

The answer came from a bedroom window that overlooked the veranda.

"Mr. Fitzroy!"

He knew as he looked up that Cynthia dared not face him again, for her

voice was too exquisitely subtle in its modulations not to betray its

owner's disappointment before she uttered another word.

"I am very sorry," she said rapidly, "but I feel I ought not to leave

Mrs. Devar until she is better, so I mean to remain indoors all day. I

shall not require the car before nine o'clock to-morrow. If _you_ like

to visit Hereford, go at any time that suits your convenience."

She seemed to regret the curtness of her speech, though indeed she was

raging inwardly because of certain barbed shafts planted in her breast

by Mrs. Devar's faint protests, and tried to mitigate the blow she had

inflicted by adding, with a valiant smile:

"For this occasion only, Jupiter must content himself with Mercury as

a companion."

"If I had Jove's power----" he began wrathfully.

"If you were Cynthia Vanrenen, you would do exactly what she is

doing," she cried, and fled from the window.

It is not to be denied that he extracted some cold comfort from that

last cryptic remark. Cynthia wanted to come, but Mrs. Devar had

evidently burked the excursion. Why? Because Cynthia's escort would

be Viscount Medenham and not Arthur Simmonds, orthodox and highly

respectable chauffeur. But Mrs. Devar plainly declared herself on the

side of Viscount Medenham last night. Why, then, did she stop a short

journey by motor, with the laudable objective of hearing an anthem and

a sermon in a cathedral, when overnight she permitted the far less

defensible trip on the river with the hated Fitzroy? It needed no

great penetration to solve this puzzle. Mrs. Devar was afraid of some

development that might happen if the girl visited Hereford that day.

She counted on Medenham being chained to Symon's Yat while Cynthia was

there--consequently she had heard something from Dale that rendered it

eminently necessary that neither he nor Cynthia should be seen in

Hereford on the Sunday. Probably, too, she did not anticipate that

Cynthia would don the haircloth of self-discipline and avoid him

during the whole of the day, since that was what the girl meant by her

allusion to Monday's starting-time.

Perhaps, using a woman's privilege, she might change her mind towards

sunset; meanwhile, it behooved him to visit Hereford and pry into

things there.

Nevertheless, he was a wise lover. Cynthia might dismiss him

graciously to follow his own behests, but it might not please her if

she discovered that he had taken her permission too literally. He

entered the hotel and wrote a letter:

"My dear Miss Vanrenen----" no pretense of "Madam" or other social

formula, but a plain and large "My dear," with the name appended as a

concession to the humbug of life, even in regard to the woman he

loved--"I am going to Hereford, but shall return here for luncheon.

Mrs. Devar's illness is not likely to be lasting, and the view from

the Yat is, if possible, better in the afternoon than in the morning.

In addition to my obvious need of a clean collar, I believe that our

presence in Hereford to-day is not desired. Why? I shall make it my

business to find out. Yours ever sincerely----"

Then he reached a high and stout stone wall of difficulty. Was he to

fall back on the subterfuge of "George Augustus Fitzroy," which, of

course, was his proper signature in law? He disliked this veil of

concealment more and more each instant, but it was manifestly out of

the question that he should sign himself "Medenham," or "George,"

while he had fought several pitched battles at Harrow with classmates

who pined to label him "Augustus," abbreviated. So, greatly daring,

he wrote: "Mercury's Guv'nor," trusting to luck whether or not

Cynthia's classical lore would remind her that Mercury was the son of

Jupiter.

He reread this effusion twice, and was satisfied with it as the herald

of others. "My dear" sounded well; the intimacy of "our presence" was

not overdone; while "yours ever sincerely" was excellent. He wondered

if Cynthia would analyze it word for word in that fashion. Well, some

day he might ask her. For the present he sealed the letter with a sigh

and gave it to a waiter for safe delivery; he fancied, but could not

be quite sure, that a good deal of unnecessary play with the motor's

Gabriel horn five minutes later brought a slender muslined figure to a

window of the then distant hotel.

From Symon's Yat to Hereford is about fifteen miles, and Medenham drew

out of the narrow lane leading from the river to Whitchurch about a

quarter-past nine. Thenceforth a straight and good road lay clear

before him, and he meant to break the law as to speed limit by

traveling at the fastest rate compatible with his own safety and that

of other road-users. It was no disgrace to the Mercury car, therefore,

when a dull report and a sudden effort of the steering-wheel to swerve

to the right betokened the collapse of an inner tube on the off side.

From the motorist's point of view it was difficult to understand the

cause of the mishap. The whole four tires were new so recently as the

previous Monday, and Medenham was far too deeply absorbed in his own

affairs to grasp the essential fact that Fate was still taking an

intelligent interest in him.

Of course, he did not hurry over the work as though his life depended

on it. Even when the cover was replaced and the tire pumped to the

proper degree of air-pressure he lit a cigarette and had a look at the

magneto before restarting the engine. Two small boys had appeared from

space, and he amused himself by asking them to reckon how long it

would take two men to mow a field of grass which one of the men could

mow in three days and the other in four. He promised a reward of

sixpence if the correct answer were forthcoming in a minute, and

raised it to a shilling during the next minute. This stimulated their

wits to suggest "a day and three-quarters" instead of the first

frantic effort of "three days and a half."

"No," said he. "Think it over, ponder it with ardor, and if you have

the right answer ready when I pass this way again about midday I'll

give you a shilling each."

There is no saying what sum he would have given those urchins if some

magician had spoken by their mouths and bade him hasten to Hereford

with all the zest of all the horses pent beneath the Mercury's bonnet.

But he left the boys ciphering on a gate with a bit of lead pencil

which he lent them, and pulled up at the door of the Green Dragon

Hotel in Hereford just five minutes after the Sunday morning express

to London had snatched a fuming and indignant Earl of Fairholme from

off the platform of the Great Western railway station.

"Whose car?" inquired a hall-porter.

"Mine," said Medenham, rather surprised by the question.

"Sorry, sir. I thought you might be the party Lord Fairholme was

expecting."

"Did you say 'Lord Fairholme'?"

Medenham spoke with the slow accents of sheer astonishment, and the

man hastened to explain.

"Yes, sir. His lordship has been a-damnin' everybody since two o'clock

yesterday afternoon because a Miss Vanrenen, who had ordered rooms

here, didn't turn up. She's on a motor tour through England, so I

thought----"

"You have made no mistake. But are you quite sure that the Earl of

Fairholme asked for Miss Vanrenen?"

"Not exactly that, sir, but he seemed to be uncommon vexed when we

could give him no news of her."

"Where is his lordship now?"

"Gone to London, sir, by the 10.5. He damned me for the last time half

an hour ago."

"Oh, did he?"

Medenham glanced at his watch, twisted himself free of the wheel,

leaped to the pavement, and tapped one of the hall-porter's gold

epaulettes impressively.

"I am forced to believe that you are speaking the truth," he said.

"Now, tell me all about it, there's a good fellow. I am a bit rattled,

because, don't you see, Lord Fairholme is my father, and he is the

last man on earth whom I would have expected to meet in Hereford

to-day. During the less exciting intervals in his speech did you find

out why he came here?"

"Perhaps the manageress may be able to tell you something, sir. Beg

pardon, but may I ask your name?"

"Medenham."

The man tickled the back of his ear in doubt, since he was aware that

an Earl's son usually has a courtesy title.

"Lord Medenham?" he hazarded.

"Viscount."

"I thought, perhaps, you might have been a gentleman named Fitzroy, my

lord," he said.

"Well, I am that, too. If you feel that I ought to be presented to the

manageress in state, kindly announce me as George Augustus Fitzroy,

Viscount Medenham, of Medenham Hall, Downshire, and 91 Cavendish

Square, London."

The hall-porter's eyes twinkled.

"I didn't mean that, my lord, but there's a chauffeur, name of

Dale----"

"Ah, what of him?"

"_He_ knows _all_ about it, my lord, and he's hiding in a hayloft down

the stable yard at this minnit, because your lordship's father

threatened to give him in charge for stealing a couple of your

portmanteaux."

"Tell me he thieved successfully and I shall fork out handsomely."

The man grinned. He was shrewd enough to realize that, no matter what

mystery lay behind all this, the aid of the police would not be

requisitioned.

"I believe----" he began. Then he made off, with a cry of "Wait just a

few seconds, my lord. I'll bring Dale."

And Dale appeared, picking bits of hay off his uniform, and striving

vainly to compose his features into their customary expression of a

stolid alertness that hears nothing but his master's orders, sees

nothing that does not concern his duties. He gave one sharp glance at

the car, and his face grew chauffeurish, but the look of hang-dog

despair returned when he met Medenham's eyes.

"I couldn't get away to save me life, my lord," he grumbled. "It was a

fair cop at Bristol, an' no mistake. His lordship swooped down on me

an' Simmonds at the station, so wot could I do?"

Medenham laughed.

"I don't blame you, Dale. You could not have been more nonplussed than

I at this moment. Will you kindly remember that I know nothing

whatever of the Earl's appearance either at Bristol or Hereford----"

"Gord's trewth! Didn't they tell you I telephoned, my lord?"

Dale would not have spoken in that fashion were he not quite woebegone

and down-hearted; and not without reason, for the Earl had dismissed

him with contumely not once but a dozen times. Medenham saw that his

retainer would be more muddled than ever if he realized that Mrs.

Devar had intercepted the telephone message, so he slurred over that

element of the affair, and Dale quickly enlightened him as to the

course taken by events after the departure of the Mercury's tourists

from Bristol.

The Earl, too, had referred to Lady St. Maur's correspondent at

Bournemouth, and Medenham could fill in blanks in the story quite

easily, but the allusions to Marigny were less comprehensible.

Dale's distress arose chiefly from the Earl's vows of vengeance when

he discovered that his son's baggage had been spirited away during the

breakfast hour that morning, but Medenham reassured him.

"Don't bother your head about that," he said. "I'll telegraph and

write to my father a full explanation to-day. You have obeyed my

orders, and he must blame me, not you, if they ran counter to his.

Take charge of the car while I change my clothes and make a few

inquiries. To save any further mix-up, you had better come with me to

Symon's Yat."

Within five minutes he ascertained that Count Edouard Marigny had

occupied a room in the Mitre Hotel, just across the street, since the

previous afternoon. More than that, the Frenchman was traveling to

London by the same train as the Earl. Then Medenham felt really angry.

It was inconceivable that his father should have allowed himself to be

drawn into a pitiful intrigue by such doubtful agents as Marigny and

the Countess of Porthcawl.

"I'll write," he vowed, "and in pretty stiff terms, too, but I'm

jiggered if I'll wire. The old chap should have shown more confidence

in me. Why on earth didn't he announce his visit to Bristol? Jolly

good job he left Hereford to-day before I arrived--there might have

been ructions. Good Lord! He evidently takes Cynthia for an

adventuress!"

Yet, in spite of the chance of ructions, it would have been far better

had Medenham not missed his father that morning. He was too dutiful a

son, the Earl was too fair-minded a parent, that they should not be

able to meet and discuss matters without heat. By noon they would have

reached Symon's Yat; before lunch was ended the older man would have

been Cynthia's most outspoken admirer. As it was--well, as it

was--there used to be a belief in the Middle Ages that the Evil One's

favorite nook lay amid the deepest shadow of a cathedral, and modern

fact is ofttimes curiously akin to medieval romance.