"I believe not--in fact, I am fairly certain of it. Mrs. Leland joined her at Chester last night, so there should be no curtailment of the tour."

The Earl started.

"Mrs. Leland! Not the Mrs. Leland of Paris, and San Remo?"

"Yes. By hazard, as it were, you have let me tell you why I came away--one of the reasons. Mrs. Leland would have recognized me at once."

"Dear me, dear me, this is a beastly muddle! Look here, George, promise me you won't do anything stupid for a day or so.... I have been so pestered by people ... I don't know which way to turn. Why not stay and meet your aunt?"

"Because I might lose my temper with _her_."

"Ah, well, she _is_ somewhat trying when it comes to family matters.

Still, I may tell her----"

"That she ought to mind her own business? By all means. And oblige me, too, by telling her that she would confer a boon on humanity if she persuaded Lady Porthcawl to go to--Jericho--or Tokio--or wherever that a.s.s, Porthcawl, may happen to be."

"Millicent Porthcawl was at Bournemouth, you know."

"Yes, I spoke to her. She had the impudence to introduce Ducrot to Cynthia."

"By gad! Did she, though? I heard something from Scarland about that affair. Well, well--there's no accounting for tastes. I suppose you realize, George, that I am keeping back a good deal of the t.i.ttle-tattle which reached me during your absence. I don't want to hurt your feelings----"

"Thank you. The absurdity of the present position lies in the fact that I shall have all my work cut out to hold your wrath against these people within bounds when once you have met Cynthia."

"Oh, I have no doubt she is pretty, and fascinating, and all that sort of thing," growled the Earl, in a grudging access of good humor.

"Confound it, that is why we are putty in their hands, George. Don't forget I've had fifty-five years of 'em. Gad! I could tell you things--all right, let us chuck the dispute for the time. Shall I see you at dinner?"

"Yes--if you are alone."

"There will be no women. I'll take devilish good care of that.

Scarland is in town for the show, and he is bringing Sir Ashley Stoke, but Betty is nursing a youngster through the measles. Good Lord! I'm glad your aunt didn't get hold of Betty!"

Now, Lord Fairholme's diatribes against the s.e.x were not quite justified. Notorious as a lady-killer in his youth, in middle age he was as garrulous a gossip as Mrs. Devar herself. Indeed, he had an uneasy consciousness that Lady St. Maur might turn and rend him if stress were laid only on _her_ efforts to thwart his son's unexpected leaning towards matrimony. During every yard of the journey from Chester to London he had tried to extract information from Marigny, and the sharp-witted Frenchman had enjoyed himself hugely in displaying a well-feigned reluctance to yield to the Earl's probing.

It was just as much a part of his scheme to make the threatened alliance as objectionable on the one side as on the other. By painting Medenham as an unprincipled adventurer he had succeeded in alarming Vanrenen; his sly hints, derogatory of both Cynthia and her father, now fanned the flame of suspicion kindled in Lord Fairholme's breast by his sister's remonstrances. Unfortunately, his lordship had gone straight to Curzon Street and told Susan St. Maur every word that Marigny had said, and a good deal that he had not said, but had left to be inferred from a smirk, a malicious glance, an airy gesture.

Perhaps the two elderly guardians of the Fairholme line were not wholly to blame for their interference. The t.i.tle descended through male heirs only, and Medenham's marriage thereby attained an added importance. Lord Fairholme himself had been singularly fortunate in escaping a mesalliance--several, in fact--and it was the one great trouble in his otherwise smooth and self-contained life that his high-born and most admirable countess had died soon after the birth of her second child, the present Marchioness of Scarland. Such a man would naturally be the most jealous scrutineer of the pretensions of his son's chosen wife. Qualities of heart and mind would weigh light in the scale against genealogy. To his thinking, blue blood differed from the common red stream as the claret of some noted vintage differs from the _vin ordinaire_ of the same year. Perhaps he had blundered on a well-founded theory, but he certainly lacked discrimination as to the _cru_.

Medenham did some shopping, lunched at a club, surprised his tailor by a prolonged visit and close inspection of tweeds and broadcloths, and successfully repressed a strong desire to write a letter. It was some consolation to peruse for the twentieth time the four closely-written pages on which Cynthia had set out the tour's timetable for the benefit of Simmonds. He had not returned it, since she possessed a copy, and in his mind's eye he followed the Mercury in its flight up the map from end to end of industrial Lancashire, through smoky Preston to trim Lancaster and quiet Kendal, and finally, after a long day, to the brooding peace and serene beauty of Windermere.

At last, rousing himself from his dreaming--for he was now back in his club again, sipping a cup of tea--he glanced at his watch. Five o'clock--a likely hour to find Mr. Vanrenen in the hotel, if, as was most probable, Devar's telegram to his mother was altogether mistaken in its report of the millionaire's movements.

He meant, of course, to make himself known to Vanrenen, and go through the whole adventure from A to Z. It should provide an interesting story, he thought--lively as a novel in some of its chapters, and calculated to appeal strongly to the bright intelligence of an American. On his way to the Savoy, he tried to picture to himself just what Cynthia's father would look like. It was a futile endeavor, because he had never yet been able to construct a mental portrait of any man wholly unknown to him. One day in Madras he had telephoned to an official for leave to shoot an elephant in a Government reservation, and a deep voice boomed back an answer. Apparently it belonged to a man whose stature warranted his appointment as controller of monsters, but when Medenham called in person for the permit he found that the voice came from a lean and wizened sc.r.a.p of humanity about five feet high.

He smiled at the recollection of his dumb surprise at this apparition, and was in the best of humors with himself when he arrived at the inquiry office of the Savoy Hotel and asked for Mr. Peter Vanrenen.

"Left here Sunday, sir," was the answer. "He will not return for a week."

This blow dished his hopes. He had counted strongly on gaining Vanrenen's friendship and sympathy before Cynthia's dainty vision met his eyes again.

"Has he gone to Paris?" he inquired.

"Can't say, sir, I'm sure. My orders are to tell callers that Mr.

Vanrenen will be in town next Tuesday."

So, if present arrangements held good, Cynthia would reach London two days before her father. Well, he must contrive somehow to get Lady St.

Maur in a proper frame of mind. Mrs. Leland's presence would be a positive blessing in that respect. Meanwhile, there would be no harm done if he----

Lest prudence should conquer him a second time he sat down and wrote:

DEAR MISS VANRENEN--I hope the car is behaving in a manner that befits the messenger of the G.o.ds, and that Dale has justified my faith in him. I am here in fulfillment of my promise to call on Mr. Vanrenen: unluckily, he is out of town, and the hotel people say he is not expected back till a day early next week. If you make any change in your programme, or even if you have a minute to spare, though proving yourself a true American by rigidly adhering to schedule, please send a line to yours ever sincerely----

Once more he hesitated at the name, and contented himself by signing "George, the Chauffeur."

The problem of an address offered some difficulty, but he boldly declared for "91 Grosvenor Square" in a postscript, believing, and correctly as it happened, that Cynthia shared with Sam Weller a peculiar knowledge of London that rendered one address very like unto another in her eyes.

The failure to meet Vanrenen was the first real drawback he had encountered. It was irritating, at the time, but he gave little heed to it after the first pang of disappointment had pa.s.sed. Fate, which had proved so kind during six days, did not see fit to warn him that her smiles would now be replaced by frowns. She even lulled him into the belief that Vanrenen's absence might prove fortunate.

"Perhaps," he fancied, "I would have rubbed him up the wrong way. He is devoted to his daughter, and he might look on my harmless but unavoidable guile with a prejudiced eye. In any event, I should be compelled to go slow in a.n.a.lyzing Mrs. Devar's motives, and this pertinacious Marigny seems to have been fairly intimate with him in Paris. Yes, on the whole, it is just as well that I missed him.

Cynthia can put matters before him in a better light than is possible to one who is an utter stranger. I must tell her, in my best American, that it is up to her to explain Fitzroy to pap."

Before leaving the hotel he inquired for Count Edouard Marigny. He drew a blank there. No such name had been registered during the year.

The dinner pa.s.sed without noteworthy incident. Sir Ashley Stoke condemned the Government, the Marquis of Scarland was more than skeptical as to the prospects of grouse shooting after the deluge in April and May, Lord Fairholme growled at the pernicious effects of the Ground Game Act, and Medenham spoke of these things with his lips but in his heart thought of Cynthia. The four men were in the smoking-room, and the Earl was chaffing his son on account of his inability to play bridge, when Tomkinson entered. He approached Medenham.

"Dale has arrived; he wishes to see your lordship," he said in a stage whisper.

"Dale!"

The young man sprang to his feet, and his troubled cry brought a smile of wonderment to his brother-in-law's face.

"By Jove!" said the Marquis, "you couldn't have jumped quicker if Tomkinson had said 'the devil' instead of 'Dale.' Who, then, is Dale?"

Medenham hurried from the room without another word. The Earl shook his head.

"More mischief!" he muttered. "Dale is George's chauffeur. I suppose he is mixed up in this Vanrenen muddle again."

"What muddle is that?" asked Scarland. "Is George in it?--that would be unusual."

Fairholme suddenly bethought himself.

"Something to do with a motor," he said vaguely. "The Vanrenens are Americans, friends of Mrs. Leland's. You remember her, Arthur, don't you?"

"Perfectly. Is 'Vanrenen' the Peter of that ilk?"

"I think so. Yes--that is the name--Peter Vanrenen."

"Oh, _he's_ all right. If George has any dispute with him I'll settle it in a minute. He is as straight as they make 'em--bought two of my prize bulls three years ago for his ranch in Montana. By the way, someone told me the other day that he has a very pretty daughter--'a real peach' the man said. Wonder if George has seen her? Begad, he might go farther and fare worse. We effete aristocrats can do with a strain of new blood occasionally, eh, what?"

"'Vanrenen' sounds like a blend of old Dutch and New England," said Sir Ashley Stoke, who was sane on all subjects save one, his pet mania being the decay of England since the pa.s.sing of the Victorian age.