The cab was crawling past the Fairholme mansion, and Cynthia's astonished eyes were regarding its style and general air of magnificence with some degree of heart-sinking--for it did then seem to be true that Mrs. Devar's original estimate of Fitzroy was correct--when a man sprang out of another taxi in front of the door, and glanced at her while in the very act of running up the steps.

Recognition was mutual. Dale muttered under his breath a wholly unjustifiable a.s.sumption as to his future state, halted dubiously, and then signaled to Cynthia's driver to stop. He strode towards her across the road, and thrust his head through the open window.

"Of course, miss," he said roughly, "you don't know what has happened?"

"No," she said, too greatly surprised to resent his strange manner.

"Well," he growled, "somebody's been nearly killed on your account, that's all."

"Somebody," she repeated, and her lips went white.

"Yes, you ought to guess well enough who it is. He and that rotten Frenchman fought a duel this morning on the sands near Calais, and Marinny as good as murdered him."

Dale's heart was sore against her as the cause of his master's plight, but even in his own distress he was quick to see the shrinking terror in the girl's eyes.

"Are you speaking of Mr. Fitzroy?" she demanded. "Are you telling the truth? Oh, for Heaven's sake, man, tell me what you mean."

"I mean what I say, miss," said he more softly. "I have left him almost at death's door in an hotel at Calais. That d.a.m.ned Frenchman ... I beg your pardon, miss, but I can't contain myself when I think of him--ran a sword through him this morning, and would have killed him outright if he hadn't been stopped by some other gentlemen. And now, there he is, a-lying in the hotel, with a doctor and a nurse trying to coax the life back into him, while I had to scurry back here to tell his people."

Some women might have shrieked and fainted--not so Cynthia. At that instant there was one thing to be done, and one only. She saw the open road, and took it without faltering or thought as to the future.

"When is the next train to Calais?" she asked.

"At nine o'clock to-night, miss."

"Oh, G.o.d!" she wailed under her breath.

Dale's voice grew even more sympathetic.

"Was you a-thinking of going to him, miss?" he asked.

"Would that I could fly there," she moaned.

He scratched the back of his ear, for it was by such means that Dale sought inspiration.

"Dash it all!" he cried. "I wish I had seen you half an hour earlier.

There is a train that leaves Charing Cross at twenty minutes past two.

It goes by way of Folkestone and Boulogne, and from Boulogne one can get easy to Calais. Anyhow, what's the use of talkin'--it is too late."

Cynthia glanced at her watch. It was just twenty-five minutes to three.

"How far is Folkestone?" was the immediate demand generated by her practical American brain.

"Seventy-two miles," said the chauffeur, who knew his roads out of London.

"And what time does the boat leave?"

A light irradiated his face, and he swore volubly.

"We can do it!" he shouted. "By the Lord, we can do it! Are you game?"

Game? The light that leaped to her eyes was sufficient answer. He tore open the door of the cab, roaring to the driver:

"Round that corner to the right--quick--then into the mews at the back!"

Within two minutes the Mercury was attracting the attention of the police as it whirled through the traffic towards Westminster Bridge.

Dale's face was set like a block of granite. He had risked a good deal in leaving his master at the point of death at Calais; he was now risking more, far more, in rushing back to Calais again without having discharged the duty which had dragged him from that master's bedside.

But he thought he had secured the best physician London could bring to the sufferer's aid, and the belief sustained him in an action that was almost heroic. He was a simple-minded fellow, with a marked taste for speed in both animals and machinery, but he had hit on one well-defined trait in human nature when he decided that if a man is dying for the sake of a woman the presence of that woman may cure when all else will fail.

CHAPTER XVI

THE END OF ONE TOUR: THE BEGINNING OF ANOTHER

Cynthia found him lying in a darkened room. The nurse had just raised some of the blinds; a dismal day was drawing to its close, and more light was needed ere she could distinguish marked bottles, and doses, and the rest of the appurtenances of dangerous illness.

An English nurse would have forbidden the presence of a stranger; this French one acted with more discretion if less of strict science.

"Madam is his sister, perhaps?" she whispered.

"No."

"A relative, then?"

"No; a woman who loves him."

That heartbroken admission told the whole tale to the quick-witted Frenchwoman. There had been a duel; one man was seriously injured; the other, she had heard, was also receiving medical attention in another hotel--the _temoins_, wistful to avoid the interrogation of the law, had so arranged--and here was the woman who had caused the quarrel.

Well, such was the will of Providence! These things had been since man and woman were expelled from Paradise--for the nurse, though a devout Catholic, suspected that Genesis had suppressed certain details of the first fratricide--and would continue, she supposed, until the Millennium.

She nodded cheerfully.

"There is every reason to hope, but he must not be disturbed--not excited, that is," she added, seeing the wan agony in Cynthia's face.

The girl tiptoed to the side of the bed. Medenham's eyes were closed, but he was muttering something. She bent and kissed his forehead, and a strange smile broke through the tense lines of pain. Even in his semi-conscious state he felt the touch of those exquisite lips.

"My Lady Alice!" he said.

She choked back a sob. He was dreaming of "Comus"--standing with her in the ruined banqueting hall of Ludlow Castle.

"Yes, your Lady Alice," she breathed.

A slight quiver shook him.

"Don't tell Cynthia," he said brokenly. "She must never know.... Ah, if I hadn't slipped, I would have quieted his viperish tongue.... But Cynthia must not know!"

"Oh, my dear, my dear, Cynthia does know! It is you who know not. Kind Heaven, let him live! Grant that I may tell him all that I know!"