ienced marriage-broker did not fail to
realize what a stumbling-block the dreadful person was in the path of
Count Edouard Marigny.

For once in her life, "Wiggy" Devar forced herself to think clearly.
She saw that "Fitzroy" was a man who might prove exceedingly dangerous
where a girl's susceptible heart was concerned. He had the address and
semblance of a gentleman; he seemed to be able to talk some jargon of
history and literature and art that appealed mightily to Cynthia;
worst of all, he had undoubtedly ascertained, by some means wholly
beyond her ken, that she and the Frenchman were in league. She was
quite in the dark as to the cause of her son's extraordinary behavior
the previous evening, but she was beginning to suspect that this
meddlesome Fitzroy had contrived, somehow or other, to banish Captain
Devar as he had outwitted Marigny on the Mendips. Talented schemer
that she was, she did not believe for a moment that Simmonds had told
the truth at Bristol. She argued, with cold logic, that the man would
not risk the loss of an excellent commission by bringing from London a
car so hopelessly out of repair that it could not be made available
under four or five days. But her increasing alarm centered chiefly in
Cynthia's attitude. If, by her allusion to a "cut-and-dried schedule,"
the girl implied a design to depart from the tour planned in London,
then the Count's wooing became a most uncertain thing, since it was
manifestly out of the question that he should continue to waylay them
at stopping-places chosen haphazard during each day's run.

So Mrs. Devar noted with a malignant eye each friendly glance
exchanged by the couple in front, and listened to the snatches of
their talk with a malevolence that was fanned to fury by their obvious
heedlessness of her presence. She felt that the crisis called for
decisive action. There was only one person alive to whose judgment
Cynthia Vanrenen would bow, and Mrs. Devar began seriously to consider
the advisability of writing to Peter Vanrenen.

If any lingering doubt remained in her mind as to the soundness of
this view, it was dispelled soon after they reached Symon's Yat. She
was sitting in the inclosed veranda of a cozy hotel perched on the
right bank of the Wye when Cynthia suddenly leaped up, teacup in hand,
and looked down at the river.

"There are the duckiest little yachts I have ever seen skimming about
on that stretch of water," she cried over her shoulder. "The