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 att.i.tude. 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 const.i.tuted 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.

CHAPTER IX

ON THE WYE

For this is what happened. To Mrs. Devar, gazing darkly at Cynthia's too innocent discovery of Medenham standing on the tiny quay, came the Welsh maid, saying:

"Beg pardon, mam, but iss your chauf-feur's name Fitz-roy?"

"Yes."

"Then he iss wan-ted on the tel-e-phone from Her-e-ford, mam."

"There he is, below there, near the river."

Mrs. Devar smiled sourly at the thought that the interruption was well-timed, since Medenham was just raising his cap with a fine a.s.sumption of surprise at finding Miss Vanrenen strolling by the water's edge. The civil-spoken maid was about to trip off in pursuit of him, when Mrs. Devar changed her mind. The notion suddenly occurred to her that it would be well if she intervened in this telephonic conversation, and Fitzroy could still be summoned a minute later if desirable.

"Don't trouble," she cried, "I think that Miss Vanrenen wishes to go boating, so I will attend to the call myself. Perhaps Fitzroy's presence may be dispensed with."

The felt-lined telephone box was well screened off; as first impressions might be valuable, she adjusted the receivers carefully over both ears before she shouted "Hallo!"

"That you, my lord?" said a voice.

"Hallo!--who wants Fitzroy?" she asked in the gruffest tone she could adopt.

"It's Dale, my---- But who is talking? Is that you, sir?"

"Go on. Can't you hear?"

"Not very well, my lord, but I'm that upset.... It wasn't my fault, but your lordship's father dropped on to me at Bristol, an' he's here now. What am I to do?"

"My lordship's father! What are you talking about? Who are you?"

"Isn't that Lord---- Oh, dash it, aren't you Miss Vanrenen's chauffeur, Fitzroy?"

"No. This is the Symon's Yat Hotel. The party is out now, and Fitzroy as well, but I can tell him anything you wish to say."

Mrs. Devar fancied that the speaker, whose words thus far had excited her liveliest curiosity, would imagine that he was in communication with the proprietors of the hotel. She was not mistaken. Dale fell into the trap instantly, though, indeed, he was not to be blamed, since he had asked most earnestly that "Mr. Fitzroy, Miss Vanrenen's chauffeur" should be brought to the telephone.

"Well, mam," he said, "if I can't get hold of--of Fitzroy--I must leave a message, as I don't suppose I'll have another chanst. I'm his man, I'm Dale; have you got it?"

"Yes--Dale."

"Tell him the Earl of Fairholme turned up in Bristol an' forced me to explain everything. I couldn't help it. The old gentleman fell from the blooming sky, he did. Will you remember that name?"

"Oh, yes: the Earl of Fairholme."

"Well, his lordship will understand. I mean you must tell Fitzroy what I said. Please tell him privately. I expect I'll get the sack anyhow over this business, but I'm doin' me best in tryin' the telephone, so you'll confer a favor, mam, if you call Fitzroy on one side before tellin' him."

Though the telephone-box was stuffy when the door was closed, Mrs.

Devar felt a cold chill running down her spine.

"I don't quite understand," she said thickly. "You're Dale, somebody's man; whose man?"

"His lordship's. Oh, d----n. Beg pardon, mam, but I'm Fitzroy's chauffeur."

It was a glorious night of early summer, yet lightning struck in that little shut-off section of the hotel.

"Do you mean that you are Viscount Medenham's chauffeur?" she gasped, and her hands trembled so much that she could scarce hold the receivers to her ears.

"Yes'm. Now you've got it. But, look here, I daren't stop another minnit. Tell his lordship--tell Mr. Fitzroy--that I'll dodge the Earl in some way an' remain here. He says he has been tricked, wot between me an' the Frenchman, but he means to go back to London to-morrow.

Good-by, mam. You won't forget--strickly private?"