Cynthia's Chauffeur

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER IX

  ON THE WYE

  For this is what happened. To Mrs. Devar, gazing darkly at Cynthia'stoo innocent discovery of Medenham standing on the tiny quay, came theWelsh 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 waswell-timed, since Medenham was just raising his cap with a fineassumption of surprise at finding Miss Vanrenen strolling by thewater's edge. The civil-spoken maid was about to trip off in pursuitof him, when Mrs. Devar changed her mind. The notion suddenly occurredto her that it would be well if she intervened in this telephonicconversation, and Fitzroy could still be summoned a minute later ifdesirable.

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

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

  "That you, my lord?" said a voice.

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

  "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 herenow. 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'schauffeur, Fitzroy?"

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

  Mrs. Devar fancied that the speaker, whose words thus far had excitedher liveliest curiosity, would imagine that he was in communicationwith the proprietors of the hotel. She was not mistaken. Dale fellinto the trap instantly, though, indeed, he was not to be blamed,since he had asked most earnestly that "Mr. Fitzroy, Miss Vanrenen'schauffeur" should be brought to the telephone.

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

  "Yes--Dale."

  "Tell him the Earl of Fairholme turned up in Bristol an' forced me toexplain everything. I couldn't help it. The old gentleman fell fromthe 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 whatI said. Please tell him privately. I expect I'll get the sack anyhowover this business, but I'm doin' me best in tryin' the telephone, soyou'll confer a favor, mam, if you call Fitzroy on one side beforetellin' 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'sman; whose man?"

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

  It was a glorious night of early summer, yet lightning struck in thatlittle 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 thereceivers to her ears.

  "Yes'm. Now you've got it. But, look here, I daren't stop anotherminnit. Tell his lordship--tell Mr. Fitzroy--that I'll dodge the Earlin some way an' remain here. He says he has been tricked, wot betweenme an' the Frenchman, but he means to go back to London to-morrow.Good-by, mam. You won't forget--strickly private?"

  "Oh, no, I won't forget," said Mrs. Devar grimly; nevertheless, shefelt weak and sick, and in her anxiety to rush out into the fresh airshe did forget to hang up the receivers, and the Symon's Yat Hotel wascut off from the world of telephones until someone entered the boxearly next morning.

  She was of a not uncommon type--a physical coward endowed with nervesof steel, but, for once in her life, she came perilously nearfainting. It was bad enough that a money-making project of some valueshould show signs of tumbling in ruins, but far worse that she, anexperienced tuft-hunter, should have lived in close companionship witha viscount for four long days and snubbed him rancorously and withoutcease. There was no escaping the net she had contrived for her ownentanglement. She had actually written to Peter Vanrenen that shedeemed it her duty as Cynthia's chaperon to acquaint him withSimmonds's defection and the filling of his place by Fitzroy, "a mostunsuitable person to act as Miss Vanrenen's chauffeur"--indeed, ayoung man who, she was sure, "would never have been chosen for such aresponsible position" by Mr. Vanrenen himself.

  And Fitzroy was Viscount Medenham, heir to the Fairholme estates,one of the most eligible young bachelors in the kingdom! Oh,blind and crass that she had not guessed the truth! The car, theluncheon-basket, the rare wine, the crest on the silver, the verycandor of the wretch in giving his real name, his instant recognitionof "Jimmy" Devar's mother, the hints of a childhood passed inSussex--why, even the aunt he spoke of on Derby Day must be SusanSt. Maur, while Millicent Porthcawl had actually met him in theBournemouth hotel!--these and many another vivid index pointed thepath of knowledge to one so well versed as she in the intricacies ofDebrett. The very attributes which she had taken for an impertinentaping of the manners of society had shouted his identity into her deafears time and again. Even an intelligent West-end housemaid would havefelt some suspicion of the facts when confronted by these piled-uptokens. She remembered noticing his hands, the quality of his linen,his astonishingly "good" appearance on the only occasion that she hadseen him in evening dress; she almost groaned aloud when she recalledthe manner of her son's departure from Bristol, and some imp in herheart raked the burnt ashes of the fire that had devoured her when sheheard why Captain Devar was requested to resign his commission. Ofcourse, this proud young aristocrat recognized him at once, and hadbrushed him out of his sight as one might brush a fly off awindowpane.

  But how was she to act in face of the threatened disaster? Why had nother son warned her? Did Marigny know, and was that the explanation ofhis sheepish demeanor when she and Cynthia were about to enter the carthat morning? Indeed, Marigny's quiet acceptance of the position wasquite as difficult to understand as her own failure to grasp thesignificance of all that happened since noon on Wednesday. This veryday, before breakfast, he had come to her room with the cheering newsthat information to hand from London would certainly procure thedismissal of "Fitzroy" forthwith. The Mercury was registered in thename of the Earl of Fairholme, the obvious deduction being that hislordship's chauffeur was careering through England in a valuable carwithout a shred of permission; the merest whisper to Cynthia of thisdiscovery, said the Frenchman, would send "Fitzroy" packing.

  And again, what had Cynthia meant when she referred at Chepstow to the"Norman baron scowl" with which "Fitzroy" had favored Marigny? Wasshe, too, in the secret? Unhappy Mrs. Devar! She glowered at thedarkening Wye, and wriggled on her chair in torture.

  "Wass it all right a-bout the tel-e-phone, mam?" said a soft voice ather ear.

  She started violently, and the maid was contrite.

  "I'm ver-ry sor-ry, mam," she said, "but I see Mr. Fitz-roy down thereon the riv-er----"

  "Where, where?" cried the other, rather to gain time to collect herwits than to ascertain Medenham's whereabouts.

  The girl pointed.

  "In that lit-tle boat, all by its-self, mam," she said.

  "Oh, it was of no importance. By the way," and Mrs. Devar produced herpurse, "you might tell the people in the office not to pay anyattention to the statements of a man named Dale, if he rings up fromHereford. He is only a chauffeur, and we shall see him in the morning;perhaps it will be best, if he asks for Fitzroy again to-night, totell him to awa
it our arrival."

  "Yess, mam," and the maid went off, the richer by half-a-crown. Mrs.Devar's usual "tip" was a sixpence for a week's attentions, so itwould demand an abstruse arithmetical calculation to arrive at anexact estimate of the degree of mental disturbance that led to thepresent lack of proportion.

  Left alone once more, her gaze followed a small skiff speedingupstream over the placid surface of the silvery Wye; Medenham wasrowing, and Cynthia held the tiller ropes; but Mrs. Devar's thoughtsturned her mind's eyes inward, and they surveyed a gray prospect.Dale, the unseen monster who had struck this paralyzing blow, spoke of"the Frenchman." Lord Fairholme had charged both Dale and "theFrenchman" with tricking him. Therefore, the Earl and Marigny had metat Bristol. If so, and there could be little doubt of it, Marignywould hardly appear in Hereford, and if she attempted to telephone tothe Green Dragon Hotel, where Cynthia had engaged rooms, she would notonly fail to reach Marigny but probably reveal to a wrathful Earl thevery fact which Dale seemed to have withheld from him, namely, hisson's address at the moment.

  She assumed that Dale knew how to communicate with his master becauseMedenham had telegraphed the name of the hotel at Symon's Yat. Thereinshe was right. Medenham wanted his baggage, and, having ascertainedthat there was a suitable train, sent instructions that Dale was totravel by it. This, of course, the man could not do. Lord Fairholmehad carried off his son's portmanteaux, and had actually hired a roomin the Green Dragon next to that reserved for Cynthia.

  Suddenly grown wise, Mrs. Devar decided against the telephone.But there remained the secrecy of the post-office. What harm ifshe sent a brief message to both the Green Dragon and the MitreHotels--Marigny would be sure to put up at one or the other if he werein Hereford--and demand his advice? She hurried to the drawing-room andwrote:

  Remaining Symon's Yat Hotel to-night. Suppose you are aware of to-day's developments. F. is son of gentleman you met in Bristol. Wire reply. DEVAR.

  She went to the hotel bureau, but a sympathetic landlady shook herhead.

  "The post-office is closed. No telegrams can be dispatched until eighto'clock on Monday," she said. "But there is the telephone----"

  "It is matterless," said Mrs. Devar, crushing the written forms in herfingers as though she had reason to believe they might sting her.

  She resolved to let events drift now. They had passed beyond hercontrol. Perhaps a policy of masterly inactivity might rescue her fromthe tornado which had swept her off her feet. In any case, she mustfight her own battles, irrespective of the cabal entered into inParis. Captain James Devar was an impossible ally; the French Countwas a negligible quantity when compared with an English viscount whoseancestry threw back to the Conquest and whose estates covered half ofa midland shire; but there remained, active as ever, the self-interestof a poor widow from whose despairing grasp was slipping a goldenopportunity.

  "Is it too late?" she asked herself. "Can anything be done? Maud, mydear, you are up against it, as they say in America. Pull yourselftogether, and see if you can't twist your mistakes to your ownadvantage."

  Cynthia, meanwhile, was enjoying herself hugely. The placid reachesof the Wye offered a delightful contrast to the sun-baked roadsof Monmouthshire; and, it may be added, there was enough of MotherEve in her composition to render the proceeding none the lessattractive because it was unconventional. Perhaps, deep hidden in herconsciousness, lurked a doubt--but that was successfully stifled forthe hour.

  Indeed, her wits were trying to solve a minor puzzle. Her woman's eyehad seen and her quick brain was marveling at certain details inMedenham's costume. There are conditions, even in England, in which aflannel suit is hard to obtain, and the manner of their coming toSymon's Yat seemed to preclude the buying of ready-made garments, asolution which would occur to an American instantly. Yet here was thatincomprehensible chauffeur clad in the correct regalia of the ThamesRowing Club, though Cynthia, of course, did not recognize the colors.

  "How did you manage it?" she asked, wide-eyed and smiling.

  "I hunted through the hotels and met a man about my own size who wasjust off to town," he said.

  "But--there are gaps."

  "I thought they fitted rather well. In fact, he was slightly thestouter of the two."

  "Don't be stupid. The gaps are in your story. Did you borrow or buy?"

  "I borrowed. Luckily, he was a decent fellow, and there was notrouble."

  "Did you know him?"

  "By name only."

  "Do Englishmen lend their clothes to promiscuous strangers?"

  "More, much more; they give them at times."

  She was silent for a few seconds. He had persuaded her that oars werepreferable to sails on such a still night, especially as he was notacquainted with the shallows, but he had not explained that if herowed and she steered he would be able to gaze his fill at her.

  "What colors are those?" she demanded suddenly.

  "I ought to have told you that I happened to find a member of the clubto which I belong," he countered. Then, before she could pin him downto a definite statement, he tried to carry the war into the enemy'scountry.

  "By the way, I hope I am not presuming on the fact that you haveconsented to take this little excursion, Miss Vanrenen, but may I askhow _you_ contrive to appear each evening in a muslin frock? Thosehold-alls on the motor are strictly utilitarian, and a mere man wouldimagine that muslin could not escape being crushed."

  "It doesn't. I have a maid iron it for me before dinner. At Hereford Ishall receive a fresh one from London, and send this back by post. Butfancy you noticing such a thing! Have you any sisters?"

  "Yes, one."

  "How old is she?"

  "Twenty-three."

  "Dear me! A year older than me. Oh, ought I to have said 'than I'?That always puzzles me."

  "You have Milton on your side. He wrote:

  Satan--than whom no higher sat.

  Still, it is generally allowed that Milton wrote bad grammar there."

  Cynthia was awed momentarily--a quotation from "Paradise Lost" alwayscommands respect--so she harked back to an easier topic.

  "Is your sister married?"

  "Yes."

  "What is her husband?"

  "She married rather well, as the saying is. Her husband is a man namedScarland, and he is chiefly interested in pedigree cattle."

  "Let me see," she mused. "I seem to remember the name; it hadsomething to do with fat cattle, too.... Scarland? Does he exhibit?"

  Medenham wished then that he had not been so glib with the Marquis ofScarland's pet occupation.

  "I have been in England so little during the past few years----" hebegan.

  "I hope you haven't quarreled with your sister?" she put in promptly.

  "What, quarrel with Betty? I?" And he laughed at the conceit, thoughhe wondered what Cynthia would say if, on Monday, he deviated a fewmiles from the Hereford and Shrewsbury main road and showed herScarland Towers and the park in which the marquis's prize stock werefattening.

  "Oh, is she so nice? And pretty, too, I suppose?"

  "People generally speak of her as good-looking. It is a recognizedfact, I believe, that pretty girls usually have brothers not sofavored----"

  "What, fishing now as well as rowing? Didn't I say you had a Normanaspect?"

  "Consisting largely of a scowl, I understand."

  "But a man is bound to look fierce sometimes. At least, my fatherdoes, though he is celebrated for his unchanging aspect, no matterwhat happens. Perhaps he may look like a Sphinx when he is carryingthrough what he calls 'a deal,' but I remember very well seeinglightning in his eye when an Italian prince was rude to me one day. Wewere at Pompeii, and this Prince Monte-something induced me to look ata horrid fresco under the pretense that it was very artistic. Withoutthinking what I was doing, I ran to father and complained about it. Mygoodness! I wonder the lava didn't melt again before he got throughwith his highness, who, after all, was a bit of a virtuoso, and mayhave really admired nasty subject
s so long as they conformed tocertain standards of art."

  "Some ideals call for correction by the toe of a strong boot--I shareMr. Vanrenen's views on that point most emphatically."

  Medenham's character was one that transmuted words to deeds. He drovethe skiff onward with a powerful sweep that discovered an unexpectedshoal. There might have been some danger of an upset if the oars werein less skillful hands. As it was, they were back in deep water withina few seconds.

  Cynthia laughed without the least tremor.

  "You were kicking my Italian acquaintance in imagination then; I hopeyou see now that you might have been mistaken," she cried.

  "Even in this instance I only touched mud."

  "Well, well, let us forget the Signor Principe. Tell me aboutyourself. How did you come to enlist? In my country, men of your stampdo not join the army unless some national crisis arises. But, perhaps,that applies to your case. The Boers nearly beat you, didn't they?"

  He took advantage of the opening thus presented, and was able tointerest her in stories of the campaign without committing himself todetails. Nevertheless, a man who had served on the headquarters staffduring the protracted second phase of the South African war couldhardly fail to exhibit an intimate knowledge of that history whichis never written. Though Cynthia had met many leaders of thought andaction, she had never before encountered one who had taken part in astruggle of such peculiar significance as the Boer revolt. She was notan English girl, eager only to hear tales of derring-do in which herfellow-countrymen figure heroically, but a citizen of that widerworld that refuses to look at events exclusively through Britishspectacles; therein lay the germ of real peril to Medenham. He had notonly to narrate but to convince. He was called on to answer questionsof policy and method that few if any of the women in his own circlewould think of putting. Obviously, this appeal to his intellectweakened the self-imposed guard on his lips. There is excellentauthority for the belief that Desdemona loved Othello for the dangershe had passed, and did with greedy ear devour his discourse, yet itmay well be conceded that an explanatory piquancy would have beenadded to the Moor's account

  Of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field,

  if the lady were not a maid of Venice but hailed from some kindredcity that refused to range all the virtues on the side of the Mistressof the Adriatic.

  More than once it chanced that Medenham had to exercise his wits veryquickly to trip his tongue when on the verge of some indiscretionthat would betray him. Perhaps he was unduly cautious. Perhaps hislistener's heart had mastered her brain for the time. Perhaps shewould not have woke up in a maze from a dream that was not less adream because she was not sleeping even if some unwary utterancecaused her to ask what manner of man this could be.

  But that can never be known, since Cynthia herself never knew. Theone sharp and clear fact that remained in her mind as a memoryof a summer's evening passed in a boat on a river flowing throughfairyland, was provided by a set of circumstances far removed fromtales of stormy night-riding after De Wet or the warp and weft ofEuropean politics as they fashioned the cere-cloths of the two Dutchrepublics.

  Neither the one nor the other should be blamed if they found a boat onthe Wye a most pleasant exchange for an eager automobile on roads thattempted to high speed. At any rate, they gave no heed to the timeuntil Cynthia happened to glance at the horizon and saw that the sunwas represented by a thin seam of silver hemming the westerly fringeof a deep blue sky. If there was a moon, it was hidden by the hills.

  "Whatever o'clock is it?" she cried in a voice that held almost asound of scare.

  Medenham looked at his watch, and had to hold it close to his eyesbefore he could make out the hour.

  "Time you were back at the hotel," he said, swinging the boat roundquickly. "I am afraid I have kept you out too long, Miss Vanrenen. Itis a perfect night, but you must not risk catching a chill----"

  "I'm not worrying about that sort of chill--there are others: whatwill Mrs. Devar think?"

  "The worst," he could not help saying.

  "What time is it, really?"

  "Won't you be happier not to know? We have the stream with us now----"

  "Mr. Fitzroy--what time is it?"

  "Nearly half-past ten o'clock. You did not leave the hotel till afterhalf-past eight."

  "Oh, blame me, of course. 'The woman tempted me and I did eat.'"

  "No, no. Apples are not the only forbidden fruit. May I vary anunworthy defense? The woman came with me and I didn't care."

  "But I do care. Please hurry. Mrs. Devar will be real mad, and Ishan't have a word to say for myself."

  Medenham bent to it, and the outrigger traveled downstream at arare pace. Cynthia steered with fair accuracy by the track theyhad followed against the current, but the oarsman glanced over hisshoulder occasionally, and advised her as to the probable trend ofthe channel.

  "Keep a bit wide here," he said when they were approaching a sharpbend. "I believe we almost touched ground in midstream as we came up."

  She obeyed, and a wide expanse of low-lying land opened before hereyes.

  "I don't see the lights of the hotel yet," she said, with a note ofanxiety.

  "You are not making enough allowance for the way in which this riverturns and twists. There are sections in which you box the compassduring the course of a short----"

  A sharp tearing noise in the bottom of the boat amidships was followedby an inrush of water. Medenham sprang upright, leaped overboard, andcaught the port outrigger with his left hand. He was then immersed tothe waist, but he flung his right arm around Cynthia and lifted herclear of the sinking craft.

  "Sit on my shoulder. Steady yourself with your hands on my head," hesaid, and his voice was so unemotional that the girl could almosthave laughed. Beyond one startled "Oh!" when the plank was rippedout she had uttered no sound, and she followed his instructions nowimplicitly. She was perched comfortably well above the river when shefelt that he was moving, not to either bank, but down the center ofthe stream. Suddenly he let go the boat, which had swung broadside on.

  "It is sinking, and the weight was pulling me over," he explained,still in the same quiet way, as though he were stating the merestcommonplace. Some thrill that she could not account for vibratedthrough her body. She was not frightened in the least. She had themost complete confidence in this man, whose head was braced againsther left thigh, and whose arm was clasping her skirts closely roundher ankles.

  "Which side do you mean to make for?" she asked.

  "I hardly know. You are higher up than me. Perhaps you can decide bestas to the set of the current. The boat seems to have been carried tothe right."

  "Pity I'm not a circus lady, to balance myself on your head," said Cynthia. _Page 209_]

  "Yes. I think the river shoals to the left."

  "Suppose we try the other way first. The hotel is on that side."

  "Anything you like."

  He took a cautious step, then another. The water was rising. Luckilythe current was not very strong or he could not have stood against it.

  "No good," he said. "We must go back."

  "Pity I'm not a circus lady. Then I might have balanced myselfgracefully on the top of your head."

  He murmured something indistinctly, but Cynthia fancied she caught thewords:

  "You're a dear, anyhow."

  "What did you say?" she asked.

  "It is high time we were out of here," he answered, turning his backto the pressure of water, which was very great in that place.

  "What will happen if there are two channels, and we have pitched on abank in the middle?"

  "I must walk about a bit until I find the right track. The Wye is notvery deep at this point. It must shelve rapidly in one direction orthe other."

  "But it mayn't."

  "In that event I shall lower you into the water, ask you to hold tightto my coat collar with both hands, and let me swim. It is only a fewyards."
<
br />   "But I can swim, too."

  "Not in a long dress.... Ah, here we are. I thought so."

  In a couple of strides the water was below his knees. Soon he wasstanding on a pebbly beach at the nose of the promontory formed bythe bend where the accident had happened. In order to lower Cynthiato the ground without bringing her muslin flounces in contact withhis dripping clothes he had to stoop somewhat. Her hair brushed hisforehead, his eyes, his lips, as he lifted her down. His hands restedfor an instant on the warm softness of her neck and shoulders. Hisheart leaped in a mad riot of joy at the belief that she would haveuttered no protest if he had drawn her nearer instead of setting herdecorously on her feet. He dared not look at her, but turned and gazedat the river.

  "Thank God, that is over!" he said.

  Cynthia heard something in his voice then that was absent when theywere both in peril of being swept away by the silent rush of the blackstream.

  "Quite an adventure," she sighed, stooping to feel the hem of herfrock.

  "You are not wet?" he asked, after a pause.

  "Not a thread. The water barely touched my feet. How prompt you were!I suppose men who fight have often to decide quickly like that....What caused it? A whole seam was torn open."

  "It cannot be a stake. Such a thing would not be permitted to exist inthis river.... A snag probably. Some old tree stump undermined bylast month's heavy rain."

  "What of the boat? Is it lost?"

  "No. It will be found easily enough in the morning. The damage istrifling. How splendid you were!"

  "Please don't. I haven't said a word to you, and I don't mean to."

  "But----"

  "Well, say it, if you must."

  "I am not going to compliment you in the ordinary terms. Justthis--nature intended you to be a soldier's bride, Miss Vanrenen."

  "Nature, being feminine, may promise that which she does not alwaysmean to carry out. Besides, I don't know many soldiers.... It ischarming here, by the river's edge, but I must remember that you aresoaked to the skin. Where are we, exactly?"

  "About four miles from the hotel, by water: perhaps a mile andthree-quarters as the crow flies."

  "How far as a girl walks?"

  "Let us try," he said briskly. "We seem to have landed in a meadow. Ifwe cross it, all my efforts to save that muslin frock will count asnaught, since there is sure to be a heavy dew on the grass after thisfine day. Suppose we follow the bank a little way until we reach somesort of a path. Will you take my hand?"

  "No, I need both hands to hold up my dress. But you might grab myarm. I am wearing French shoes, which are not built for clamberingover rocks."

  Cynthia was adroit. The use of one small word had relieved thesituation. Medenham might hold her arm with the utmost tenderness, butso long as he was "grabbing" it there was nothing more to be said.

  He piloted her to a narrow strip of turf that bordered the Wye, founda path that ran close to a small wood, and soon they were in a road.There was slight excuse for arm-holding now, but Cynthia seemed tothink that her frills still needed safeguarding, so he did notwithdraw the hand which clung to her elbow.

  A light in a laborer's cottage promised information; he knocked at thedoor, which was not opened, but a voice cried:

  "Who is it? What do you want?"

  "Tell me the nearest way to the Symon's Yat Hotel, please," saidMedenham.

  "Keep straight on till you come to the ferry. If the boat is on thisside you can pull yourself across."

  "But if it is not?"

  "You must chance it. The nearest bridge is a mile the other way."

  "By gad!" said Medenham under his breath.

  "I wouldn't care a pin if Mrs. Devar wasn't waiting for me," whisperedCynthia, whose mental attitude during this mishap on the Wyecontrasted strangely with her alarm when Marigny's motor collapsed onthe Mendips.

  "Mrs. Devar is the real problem," laughed Medenham. "We must find somemeans of soothing her agitation."

  "Why don't you like her?"

  "That is one of the things I wish to explain later."

  "She has been horrid to you, I know, but----"

  "I am beginning to think that I owe her a debt of gratitude I cannever repay."

  "What will happen if that wretched ferryboat is on the wrong side ofthe river?"

  Medenham took her arm again, for the road was dark where there weretrees.

  "You are not to think about it," he said. "I have been doing all thetalking to-night. Now tell me something of your wanderings abroad."

  These two already understood each other without the spoken word. Herespected her desire to sheer off anything that might be construed asestablishing a new relationship between them, and she appreciated hisrestraint to the full. They discussed foreign lands and peoples untilthe road bent toward the river again and the ferry was reached--at apoint quite half a mile below the hotel.

  And there was no boat!

  A wire rope drooped into the darkness of the opposite bank, but novoice answered Medenham's hail. Cynthia said not a syllable until hercompanion handed her his watch with a request that she should holdit.

  "You are not going into that river," she cried determinedly.

  "There is not the slightest risk," he said.

  "But there is. What if you were seized with cramp?"

  "I shall cling to the rope, if that will satisfy you. I have swum theZambesi before to-day, not from choice, I admit, and it is twentytimes the width of the Wye, while it holds more crocodiles than theWye holds salmon."

  "Well--if you promise about the rope."

  Soon he was out of sight, and her heart knew its first pang of fear.Then she heard his cry of "Got the boat," followed by the clank of asculling oar and the creak of the guiding-wheel on the hawser.

  At last, shortly before midnight, they neared the hotel. Lights werevisible on the quay, and Medenham read their meaning.

  "They are sending out a search party," he said. "I must go and stopthem. You run on to the hotel, Miss Vanrenen. Good-night! I shall giveyou an extra hour to-morrow."

  She hesitated the fraction of a second. Then she extended a hand.

  "Good-night," she murmured. "After all, I have had a real lovelytime."

  Then she was gone, and Medenham turned to thank the hotel servantsand others who were going to the rescue.

  "I wonder what the guv'nor will say when he sees Cynthia," he thought,with the smile on his face of the lover who deems his lady peerlessamong her sex. He recalled that moment before many days had passed,and his reflections then took a new guise, for not all the knowledgeand all the experience a man may gather can avail him a whit toforecast the future when Fate is spinning her complex web.