e with his master because
Medenham had telegraphed the name of the hotel at Symon's Yat. Therein
she was right. Medenham wanted his baggage, and, having ascertained
that there was a suitable train, sent instructions that Dale was to
travel by it. This, of course, the man could not do. Lord Fairholme
had carried off his son's portmanteaux, and had actually hired a room
in 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 if
she sent a brief message to both the Green Dragon and the Mitre
Hotels--Marigny would be sure to put up at one or the other if he were
in Hereford--and demand his advice? She hurried to the drawing-room and
wrote:

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 her
head.

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

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

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

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

Cynthia, meanwhile, was enjoying herself hugely. The placid reaches
of the Wye offered a delightful contrast to the sun-baked roads
of Monmouthshire; and, it may be added, there was enough of Mother
Eve in her composition to render the proceeding none the less
attractive because it was unconventional. Perhaps, deep hidden in her