e Earl's allusions to Marigny, and it occurred to
him then that the latter had used his father's name at Bristol. He
turned to Dale again.

"Before this business is ended I shall probably find it necessary to
kick a Frenchman," he said.

"Make it two of 'em, my lord, an' let me take it out of the other
one," growled Dale.

"Well, there _is_ a bottle-holder," said Medenham, thinking of Devar,
"a short, fat fellow, an Englishman, but a most satisfactory subject
for a drop kick."

"Say when, my lord, an' I'll score a goal with him."

Dale seemed to be speaking feelingly, but his master paid slight heed
to him then. A girl in muslin, wearing a rather stylish hat--now,
where did Cynthia get a hat?--had just sauntered to that end of the
hotel's veranda which gave a glimpse of the road.

"Make yourself comfortable in one of the cottages hereabouts," was
Medenham's parting instruction to his man. "I don't suppose the car
will be needed again to-day, but you might refill the petrol tank--on
the off chance."

"Yes--my lord."

Dale lifted his cap. The ostler who had helped in the cleaning of the
car overnight was standing near the open doors of the coach-house. He
might not have heard the words, but he certainly saw the respectful
action. His eyes grew round, and his lips pursed to give vent to an
imaginary whistle.

"_I_ knew," he told himself. "He's a toff, that's wot he is. Mum's the
word, Willyum. Say nothink, 'specially to wimmen!"

Bowing low before his smiling goddess, Medenham produced the packet of
letters. It happened that the unstamped note for Mrs. Devar lay
uppermost, and Cynthia guessed some part, at least, of its contents.

"Poor Monsieur Marigny!" she cried. "I fear he had a cheerless evening
in Hereford. This is from him. I know his handwriting.... While father
and I were in Paris he often sent invitations for fixtures at the
Velo--once for a coach-drive to Fontainebleau. I was rather sorry I
missed _that_."

Medenham thanked her in his heart for that little pause. No printed
page could be more legible than Cynthia's thought-processes. How
delightful it was to feel that her unspoken words were mirrored in his
own brain!

But these lover-like beatitudes were interrupted by a slight shriek.
She had glanced curiously at a postmark, ripped open an envelope, and
was reading something that surprised her greatly.

"Well, of all the queer things!" she cried. "Here's father in London.
He started from Pa