what's
her name? Vanrenen, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Medenham, replacing the hood after a critical glance at
the wires, though he hardly thought that this sturdy mechanic would
play any tricks on him.

"Which of you men is called Fitzroy?" demanded a serving-maid,
carrying a tray.

"I," said Medenham.

"Here, Miss," broke in the other, "my name's Smith, plain Smith, but I
can do with a sup o' tea as well as anybody."

"Ask Miss Vanrenen to give you another cup for Count Marigny's
chauffeur," said Medenham to the girl.

"Oh, he's a count, is he?" said the waitress saucily. "My, isn't he
mashed on the young one?"

"Who wouldn't be?" declared Smith. "She's the sort of girl a fellow
'ud leave home for."

"Fine feathers go a long way. There's as good as her in the world,"
came the retort, not without a favorable glance at Medenham.

"Meanwhile the tea is getting cold," said he.

"Dear me, you needn't hurry. Her ma is goin' to write half-a-dozen
picture postcards. But what a voice! The old girl drowns the
waterfall."

The waitress flounced off. She was pretty, and no wandering chauffeur
had ever before turned aside the arrows of her bright eyes so
heedlessly.

"Then you have seen Miss Vanrenen?" inquired Medenham, sipping his
tea.

"Ra-ther!" said Smith. "Saw her in Paris, at the Ritz, when my people
sent me over there to learn the mechanism of this car. The Count was
always hanging about, and I thought he wanted the old man to buy a Du
Vallon, but it's all Lombard Street to a china orange that he was
after the daughter the whole time. I don't blame him. She's a regular
daisy. But you ought to know best. How do _you_ get on with her?"

"Capitally."

"Why did Dale and you swop jobs?"

"Oh, a mere matter of arrangement," said Medenham, who realized that
Smith would blurt out every item of information that he possessed if
allowed to talk.

"He's a corker, is Dale," mused the other. "I can do with a pint or
two meself when the day's work is finished an' the car safely locked
up for the night. But that Dale! he's a walkin' beer-barrel. Lord love
a duck! what a soakin' he gev' me in Brighton. Some lah-di-dah toff
swaggered into the garage that evenin', and handed Dale a fiver--five
golden quidlets, if you please--which my nibs had won on a horse at
Epsom. I must say, though, Dale did the thing handsome--quart bottles
o' Bass opened every ten minutes. Thank you, my dear"--this to the
waitress, "next to beer g