purchase some curios, impatience mastered him, and he brought the car
slowly on until she turned and looked at him.

He raised his cap.

"The gorge is the finest thing in Cheddar, Miss Vanrenen," he said.
"You ought to see it while the light is strong."

"We are going now," she answered coldly. "Monsieur Marigny will take
me to Bristol, and you will follow with Mrs. Devar."

He did not flinch from her steadfast gaze, though those blue eyes of
hers seemed definitely to forbid any expression of opinion. Yet there
was a challenge in them, too, and he accepted it meekly.

"I was hoping that I might have the pleasure of driving you this
evening," he said. "The run through the pass is very interesting, and
I know every inch of it."

He fancied that she was conscious of some mistake, and eager to atone
if in the wrong.

She hesitated, yielded almost, but Mrs. Devar broke in angrily:

"We have decided differently, Fitzroy. I have some few postcards to
dispatch, and Count Marigny has kindly promised to run slowly up the
hill until we overtake him."

"Yes, you ought to have waited in the yard of the inn for orders,"
said the ever-smiling Marigny. "My car can hardly pass yours in this
narrow road. Back a bit to one side, there's a good fellow, and, when
we have gone, pull up to the door. Come, Miss Vanrenen. I am fierce to
show you the paces of a Du Vallon."

The concluding sentences were in French, but Count Edouard spoke
idiomatic English fluently and with a rather fascinating accent.

Cynthia, slightly ruffled by her own singular lack of purpose, made
no further demur. The three walked off down the hill, and Medenham
could only obey in a chill rage that, were Marigny able to gauge its
intensity, might have given him "furiously to think."

In a few minutes the Du Vallon scurried by. Smith was driving, and
there was a curious smirk on his red face as he glanced at Medenham.
Cynthia sat in the tonneau with the Frenchman, who drew her attention
to the limestone cliffs in such wise that she did not even see the
Mercury as she passed.

Medenham muttered something under his breath, and reversed slowly back
to the inn. He consulted his watch.

"I'll give the postcard writer ten minutes--then I shall jar her
nerves badly," he promised himself.

Those minutes were slow-footed, but at last he closed the watch with a
snap. He called to a waitress visible at the end of a long passage.
The girl happened to be his friend