There is no lovelier garden in England than that of Wells Palace, and Cynthia was so rapt in it that even Medenham had to pull out his watch and remind her of dusty roads leading to far-off Bristol.

Mrs. Devar looked so sour when they came from an inspection of one of the seven wells to which the town owes its name that Cynthia weakened and sat by her side. Thereupon Medenham made amends for lost time by exceeding the speed limit along every inch of the run to Cheddar.

Of course he had to crawl through the narrow streets of the little town, above which the bare crests of the Mendips give such slight promise of the glorious gorge that cuts through their ma.s.siveness from south to north. Even at the very lip of the magnificent canyon the outlook is deceptive. Perhaps it is that the eye is caught by the flaring advertis.e.m.e.nts of the stalact.i.te caves, or that baser emotions are awakened by the sight of cozy tea-gardens--of one in particular, where a cascade tumbles headlong from the black rocks, and a tree-shaded lawn offers rest and coolness after hours pa.s.sed in the hot sun.

Be that as it may, "tea" had a welcome sound, and Medenham, who had lunched on bread and beer and pickles, was glad to halt at the entrance of the inn that boasted a waterfall in its grounds.

The road was narrow, and packed with chars-a-bancs awaiting their hordes of noisy trippers. Some of the men were tipsy, and Medenham feared for the Mercury's paint. To the left of the hotel lay a s.p.a.cious yard that looked inviting. He backed in there when the ladies had alighted, and ran alongside an automobile on which "Paris" and "speed" were written in characters legible to the motorist.

A chauffeur was lounging against the stable wall and smoking.

"h.e.l.lo," said Medenham affably, "what sort of car is that?"

"A 59 Du Vallon," was the answer. Then the man's face lit up with curiosity.

"Yours is a New Mercury, isn't it?" he cried. "Was that car at Brighton on Wednesday night?"

"Yes," growled Medenham; he knew what to expect, and his face was grim beneath the tan.

"But you were not driving it," said the other.

"A chap named Dale was in charge then."

"Oh, is that it? You've brought two ladies here just now?"

"Yes."

"Good! My guv'nor's on the lookout for 'em. He didn't tell me so, but he made sure they hadn't pa.s.sed this way when we turned up."

"And when was that?" asked Medenham, feeling unaccountably sick at heart.

"Soon after lunch. Ran here from Bristol. There's a bad bit of road over the Mendips, but the rest is fine. I s'pose we'll all be hiking back there to-night?"

"Most probably," agreed Medenham, who said least when he was most disturbed; at that moment he could cheerfully have wrung Count Edouard Marigny's neck.

CHAPTER V

A FLURRY ON THE MENDIPS

It is a contrariety of human nature that men devoted to venturesome forms of sport should often be tender-hearted as children. Lord Medenham, who had done some slaying in his time, once risked his life to save a favorite horse from a Ganges quicksand, and his right arm still bore the furrows plowed in it by claws that would have torn his spaniel to pieces in a Kashmir gully had he not thrust the empty barrels 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 the sacrifice of a friend, but safety won at such a price would have galled him worse than the spinning of a coin with death.

Wholly apart from considerations that he was strangely unwilling to acknowledge, even to his own heart, he now resented Marigny's cold-blooded pursuit of an unsuspecting girl mainly because of its unfairness. Were Cynthia Vanrenen no more to him than the hundreds of pretty women he would meet during a brief London season he would still have wished to rescue her from the money-hunting gang which had marked her down as an easy prey. But he had been vouchsafed glimpses into her white soul. That night at Brighton, and again to-day in the cloistered depths of the cathedral at Wells, she had admitted him to the rare intimacy of those who commune deeply in silence.

It was not that he dared yet to think of a love confessed and reciprocated. The prince in disguise is all very well in a fairy tale; in England of the twentieth century he is an anachronism; and Medenham would as soon think of shearing a limb as of profiting by the chance that threw Cynthia in his way. Of course, a less scrupulous wooer might have devised a hundred plausible methods of revealing his ident.i.ty--was not Mrs. Devar, marriage-broker and adroit sycophant, ready to hand and purchasable?--and there was small room for doubt that a girl's natural vanity would be fluttered into a blaze of romance by learning that her chauffeur was heir to an old and well-endowed peerage. But honor forbade, nor might he dream of winning her affections while flying false colors. True, it would not be his fault if they did not come together again in the near future. He meant to forestall any breach of confidence on the part of Simmonds by writing a full explanation of events to Cynthia herself. If his harmless escapade were presented in its proper light, their next meeting should be fraught with laughter rather than reproaches; and then--well, then, he might urge a timid plea that his repute as a careful pilot during those three memorable days was no bad recommendation for a permanency!

But now, in a flash, the entire perspective had changed. The Frenchman and Mrs. Devar, between them, threatened to upset his best-laid plans.

It was one thing to guess the nature of the sordid compact revealed at Brighton; it was quite another to be brought face to face with its active development at Cheddar. The intervening hours had disintegrated all his pet theories. In a word, the difference lay in himself--before and after close companionship with Cynthia.

It must not be imagined that Medenham indulged in this species of self-a.n.a.lysis while fetching a pail of water to replace the wastage from the condenser. He was merely in a very bad temper, and could not trust himself to speak until he had tended to his beloved engine.

He determined to set doubt at rest forthwith by the simple expedient of finding Miss Vanrenen, and seeing whether or not Marigny had waylaid her already.

"Keep an eye on my machine for a minute," he said to the guardian of the Du Vallon. "By the way, is Captain Devar here?" he added, since Devar's presence might affect his own actions.

"Oh, you know _him_, do you?" cried the other. "No, he didn't come with us. We left him at Bristol. He's a bird, the captain. Played some johnny at billiards last night for a quid, and won. He told the guv'nor this morning that there is another game fixed for to-day, and you ought to have seen him wink. It's long odds again' the Bristol gent, or I'm very much mistaken. Yes, I'll keep any amatoor paws off your car, and off my own as well, you bet."

To pa.s.s from the stable yard to the garden it was not necessary to enter the hotel. A short path, shaded by trellis-laden creepers and climbing roses, led to a rustic bridge over the stream. When Medenham had gone halfway he saw the two women sitting with Marigny at a table placed well apart from other groups of tea-drinkers. They were talking animatedly, the Count smiling and profuse of gesture, while Cynthia listened with interest to what was seemingly a convincing statement of the fortunate hazard that led to his appearance at Cheddar. The Frenchman was too skilled a stalker of shy game to pretend a second time 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 come to 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 much of a gad-about to earn money, but people are always asking him to their 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 cut flowers, and a neat waitress had evidently been detailed by the management to look after these distinguished guests; Marigny's stage setting for his first decisive move was undoubtedly well contrived. It was delightfully pastoral--a charming bit of rural England--and, as such, eminently calculated to impress an American visitor.

Cynthia poured out a cup of tea, heaped a plate with cakes and bread and b.u.t.ter, and gave some instructions to the waitress. Medenham knew what that meant. He hurried back by the way he had come, and found that 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 brother in the craft.

"38."

"Looks a sixty, every inch. I wonder if you could hold my car at Brooklands?"

"Perhaps not, but I may give you some dust to swallow over the Mendips."

The chauffeur grinned.

"Of course you'd say that, but it all depends on what the guv'nor means 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 some game to-day. He's fair crazy about that girl you have in tow--what's her name? Vanrenen, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Medenham, replacing the hood after a critical glance at the wires, though he hardly thought that this st.u.r.dy mechanic would play 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 I can do with a sup o' tea as well as anybody."

"Ask Miss Vanrenen to give you another cup for Count Marigny's chauffeur," said Medenham to the girl.