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Updated: June 11, 2025
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.
But another man, short, rotund, very erect of figure, and strutting in gait, came from the interior of a "shelter" that stood a little to the right of Medenham's position on the rails. "Hello, Marigny," said he jauntily. The Count looked back towards the hotel. His tubby acquaintance chuckled. The effort squeezed an eyeglass out of his right eye.
"She had arranged for a car to meet her here. As it was not forthcoming, she altered her plans for a tour of Oxford, Kenilworth, and Warwick, and has gone in Viscount Viscount " "Medenham's." "Ah, yes I did not catch the name precisely in your son's car to London."
"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.
Notwithstanding the community of taste established by Smith's weeds, the man was still furtively racking his brains to account for certain discrepancies in his new acquaintance's bearing and address. Medenham's hands, for instance, were too well kept. His boots were of too good a quality. His reindeer driving gloves, discarded and lying on the front seat, were far too costly.
A girl in muslin, wearing a rather stylish hat now, where did Cynthia get a hat? had just sauntered to that end of the hotel's veranda which gave a glimpse of the road. "Make yourself comfortable in one of the cottages hereabouts," was Medenham's parting instruction to his man. "I don't suppose the car will be needed again to-day, but you might refill the petrol tank on the off chance."
Devar tried to be gracious, and only succeeded in being stilted, for the shadow of impending disaster lay black upon her. Medenham's only thrill came when Cynthia asked for letters or telegrams at the Green Dragon, and was told there were none. Evidently, Peter Vanrenen was not a man to create a mountain out of a molehill. Mrs.
Almost halting, he swept a hasty hand across his eyes then he was sure. Medenham, with arm extended in a feint in tierce, was bearing so heavily on his opponent's rapier that his right foot slipped, and he stumbled badly. At once Marigny struck with the deadly quickness and certainty of a cobra. His weapon pierced Medenham's breast high up on the right side.
She felt that she must confide in someone, so she wrote a full account of events at Symon's Yat to her son. It was the worst possible thing she could have done. Unconsciously for she was now anxious to help instead of hindering Medenham's wooing some of the gall in her nature distilled itself into words. She dwelt on the river episode with all the sly rancor of the inveterate scandalmonger.
No manner of doubt was cast on Medenham's good faith; he pocketed half a dozen letters for Cynthia, and one, unstamped, bearing the crest of the Mitre, for Mrs. Devar. By the merest chance he caught sight of a note, addressed "Viscount Medenham," stuck in a rack among some telegrams. The handwriting was his father's. But how secure it without arousing quite reasonable suspicion?
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