less Cynthia who ran into the
quiet country hotel at an hour when the Licensing Laws of Britain have
ordained that quiet country hotels shall be closed. But even the laws
of the Medes and Persians, which altered not, must have bulged a
little at times under the pressure of circumstances. The daughter of
an American millionaire could not be reported as "missing" without a
buzz of commotion being aroused in that secluded valley. As a matter
of fact, no one in the house dreamed of going to bed until her
disappearance was accounted for, one way or the other.

Mrs. Devar, now really woebegone, screamed shrilly at sight of her.
The lady's nerves were in a parlous condition--"on a raw edge" was her
own phrase--and the relief of seeing her errant charge again was so
great that the shriek merged into a sob.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she wept, "what a shock you have given me! I
thought you were gone!"

"Not so bad as that," was the contrite answer. Cynthia interpreted
"gone" as meaning "dead," and naturally read into the other woman's
anxiety her own knowledge of the disaster to the boat. "We had a bit
of an upset--that is all--and the bread always flops to the floor
buttered side down, doesn't it? So we had to struggle ashore on the
wrong bank. It couldn't be helped--that is, the accident couldn't--but
I ought not to have been on the river at such a late hour. Do forgive
me, dear Mrs. Devar!"

By this time the girl's left arm was around her friend's portly form;
in her intense eagerness to assuage Mrs. Devar's agitation she began
to stroke her hair with the disengaged hand. A deeply sympathetic
landlady, a number of servants, and most of the feminine guests in the
hotel--all the men were down on the quay--had gathered to murmur their
congratulations; but Mrs. Devar, dismayed by Cynthia's action, which
might have brought about a catastrophe, revived with phenomenal
suddenness.

"My dear child," she cried, extricating herself from the encircling
arm, "_do_ let me look at you! I want to make sure that you are not
injured. The boat upset, you say. Why, your clothes must be wringing
wet!"

Cynthia laughed. She had guessed why her chaperon wished to keep her
literally at arm's length. She spread her skirts with a quick gesture
that relieved an awkward situation.

"Not a drop on my clothes," she said gleefully. "The water just
touched the soles of my boots, but before you could say 'Jack
Robinson' Fitzroy had whisked me out of