of one who, at the close of the Boer
War, elected to shoot his way home through the Mid-African haunts of
big game rather than return by orthodox troopship. On the face of
things, it was absurd to imagine that a self-confessed wanderer
should be permitted to see his first Derby in the sacrosanct company
of a stout aunt and a well-filled luncheon basket. Even Medenham's
recording angel must have smiled at the conceit, though doubtless
shaking a grave head when the announcement of the Dowager's
indisposition revealed the first twist from the path of good intent.
As for Lady St. Maur, she declared long afterwards that the whole
amazing entanglement could be traced distinctly to her fondness for
the ducal fruit raised under glass. A cherry-stone lodged in the
vermiform appendix of an emperor has more than once played strange
pranks with the map of Europe, so it is not surprising that a
strawberry, subtly bestowed in a place well adapted to the exercise of
its fell skill, should be able to convulse a section of the British
peerage.

Be that as it may, the hap that put Medenham in control of his Mercury
unquestionably led to the next turn in events. A man driving a
high-powered car watches the incidents of the road more closely than
the same individual lounging at ease in the back seat. Hence, his
lordship's attention was caught instantly by a touring car drawn up
close to the curb in Down Street. That short thoroughfare forms, as
it were, a backwash for the traffic of Piccadilly. At the moment it
held no other vehicle than the two automobiles, and it required no
second look at the face of the driver of the motionless car to
discover that something was seriously amiss. Anger and despair
struggled there for predominance. Richard the Third of England must
have given just such a glance at his last horse foundered on Bosworth
Field.

Medenham never passed another motorist in trouble without stopping.

"Anything the matter?" he asked, when the Mercury was halted with the
ease of a trained athlete poised in suspended motion.

"Everything!"

The chauffeur snapped out the word without turning. He was a man
devoid of faith, or hope, or charity.

"Can I help?"

"Can you h----l!" came the surly response.

Thereupon, many viscounts would have swept on into Piccadilly without
further parley--not so Medenham. He scrutinized the soldierly figure,
the half-averted face.

"You must be hard hit, Simmonds, before you would answer