made a gallant attempt
to retrieve her fellow-conspirator's shattered fortunes.

"My dearest Cynthia," she cried effusively, "do say you are not hurt!"

"Not a bit," was the cheerful answer. "It is not I, but the car, that
is out of commission. Didn't you see me do the Salome act when you
were thrown on the screen?"

"Ah! the car has broken down. I do not wonder--this fearful road----"

"The road seems to have strayed out of Colorado, but that isn't the
trouble. We are short of petrol. Please give some to Monsieur Marigny,
Fitzroy. Then we can hurry to Bristol, and the Count must pick up his
chauffeur on the way."

Without more ado, she seated herself by Mrs. Devar's side, and Marigny
realized that he had been robbed of a golden opportunity. No
persuasion would bring Cynthia back into the Du Vallon that evening;
it would need the exercise of all his subtle tact to induce her to
re-enter it at any time in the near future.

He strove to appear at his ease, even essayed a few words of
congratulation on the happy chance that brought the Mercury to their
relief, but the imperious young lady cut short his limping phrases.

"Oh, don't let us waste these precious minutes," she protested. "It
will be quite dark soon, and if there is much more of this wretched
track----"

Medenham broke in at that. Mrs. Devar's change of front had caused him
some grim amusement, but the discovery of Marigny's artifice roused
his wrath again. It was high time that Cynthia should be enlightened,
partly at least, as to the true nature of the "accident" that had
befallen her; he had already solved the riddle of Smith's
disappearance.

"The road to Bristol lies behind you, Miss Vanrenen," he said.

"One of the roads," cried the Frenchman.

"No, the only road," persisted Medenham. "We return to it some two
miles in the rear. Had you followed your present path much farther you
could not possibly have reached Bristol to-night."

"But there is a village quite near. My chauffeur has gone there for
petrol. Someone would have told us of our mistake."

"There is no petrol to be bought at Blagdon, which is a mere hamlet on
the downs. Anyhow, here are two gallons--ample for your needs--but if
your man is walking to Blagdon you will be compelled to wait till he
returns, Monsieur Marigny."

Though Medenham did not endeavor to check the contemptuous note that
crept into his voice, he certainly ought not to have uttered those two
concluding words