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Updated: June 11, 2025
"I suppose your friend Simmonds will reveal his whereabouts during the evening," she said, while disencumbering herself of her wraps. Mrs. Devar had already alighted, but the girl was standing in the car and spoke over Medenham's shoulder. "Of course, he may not be here," was the answer, not given too loudly, since Mrs.
Guns unlimbered and first range-finder dispatched in nineteen seconds eh, what?" Simmonds squared his shoulders. He had been a driver in the Royal Artillery before he joined Viscount Medenham's troop of Imperial Yeomanry. There was no further argument. Dale, Oriental in phlegm now that Eyot was safely backed, was already unscrewing the luggage carrier.
"Aie pas peur, mon vieux!" cried he in very colloquial French. "My mother sent a note to say that the fair Cynthia has retired to her room to write letters. I have been waiting here ten minutes." Now, it chanced that Medenham's widespread touring in France had rubbed up his knowledge of the language.
"If there are sermons in stones what a history is pent in these!" "And how greatly it would differ from the accepted versions," laughed Medenham. "Do we never know the truth, then?" "Oh, yes, if we are actually mixed up in some affair of worldwide importance, but that is precisely the reason why the actors remain dumb." Oddly enough, this was the first of Medenham's utterances that Mrs.
Devar was building better than she knew. Cynthia laughed, though not with the whole-souled merriment that was music in Medenham's ears. "She has been properly punished; I forgot to tip her," she explained. "Count Edouard would see to that " "He didn't. I noticed what he paid out of sheer curiosity. Perhaps I ought to send her something." "My dear Cynthia!"
Are you playing the ponies, Mrs. Devar?" That lady, being quick-witted, took care not to offend Cynthia by pretending not to understand, though it set Medenham's teeth on edge to hear a racehorse called a pony. She opened a gold purse and produced a coin. "I don't mind risking a little," she tittered.
He was tired physically, worried mentally; he had been brought from Paris at an awkward moment; he was naturally devoted to his daughter; he believed that Medenham was an unmitigated scamp and Simmonds his tool; and his failure to solve Medenham's arithmetical problem still rankled. These considerations, among others, may be pleaded in his behalf.
Indeed, her wits were trying to solve a minor puzzle. Her woman's eye had seen and her quick brain was marveling at certain details in Medenham's costume. There are conditions, even in England, in which a flannel suit is hard to obtain, and the manner of their coming to Symon's Yat seemed to preclude the buying of ready-made garments, a solution which would occur to an American instantly.
But that was a mere feint, a preliminary flourish, such as a practiced swordsman executes in empty air before saluting his opponent. He had not the slightest intention of testing Medenham's pugilistic powers just then.
He had already recognized Marigny as the owner of the Du Vallon, for he had seen him leaving the Metropole Hotel at Brighton not many days ago, and had the best of reasons for regarding him as Viscount Medenham's implacable enemy.
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