The Du Vallon came panting from the garage, but the Frenchman sent it away again. Hereford was no great distance by the direct road, and he had already determined not to follow the tortuous route devised by Cynthia for the day's run. Moreover, he must now reconsider his schemes. The long telegrams which he had just dispatched to Devar in London and to Peter Vanrenen in Paris might demand supplements.

And to think of that accursed chauffeur being a viscount! His gorge rose at that. The thought almost choked him. It was well that the hall-porter did not understand French, or the words that were muttered by Marigny as he turned on his heel and re-entered the hotel might have shocked him. And, indeed, they were most unsuited for the ears of a hall-porter who dwelt next door to a cathedral.

CHAPTER VIII

BREAKERS AHEAD

The Earl's t.i.tle-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 p.r.o.nunciation of the cla.s.sical 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 a.s.sumed 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 fl.u.s.tered 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 circ.u.mstances.

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 Salome 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 const.i.tuted 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 a.s.sured 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. .h.i.t 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?"