"

"He strikes me as an impudent puppy."

"Anyhow, he can swing a motor. See that!" for the Mercury had executed
a corkscrew movement between several vehicles with the sinuous grace
of a greyhound.

Now it was Mrs. Devar, and not Cynthia, who leaned forward and said
pleasantly:

"You seem to be in a hurry to leave Bournemouth, Fitzroy."

"I am not enamored of bricks and mortar on a fine morning," he
answered.

"Well, I have full confidence in you, but don't embroil us with the
police. We have a good deal to see to-day, I understand."

Then he heard the strenuous voice addressing Cynthia.

"Millicent Porthcawl says that Glastonbury is heavenly, and Wells a
peaceful dream. I visited Cheddar once, some years ago, but it rained,
and I felt like a watery cheese."

Lady Porthcawl's commendation ought to have sanctified Glastonbury and
Wells--Mrs. Devar's blue-moldy joke might even have won a smile--but
Cynthia was preoccupied; strange that she, too, should be musing of
Simmonds and a hurrying car, for Medenham had told her that the
transfer would take place at Bristol.

She was only twenty-two, and her very extensive knowledge of the world
had been obtained by three years of travel and constant association
with her father. But her lines had always been cast in pleasant
places. She had no need to deny herself any of the delights that life
has to offer to youth and good health and unlimited means. The
discovery that friendship called for discretion came now almost as a
shock. It seemed to be a stupid social law that barred the way when
she wished to enjoy the company of a well-favored man whom fate had
placed at her disposal for three whole days. Herself a blue-blooded
American, descendant of old Dutch and New England families, she was
quite able to discriminate between reality and sham. Mrs. Devar, she
was sure, was a pinchbeck aristocrat; Count Edouard Marigny might have
sprung from many generations of French gentlemen, but her paid
chauffeur was his superior in every respect save one--since, to all
appearance, Marigny was rich and Fitzroy was poor.

Curiously enough, the man whose alert shoulders and well-poised head
were ever in view as the car hummed joyously through the pine woods
had taken on something of the mere mechanic in aspect since donning
that serviceable linen coat. The garment was weather-stained. It bore
records of over-lubrication, of struggles with stiff outer covers, of
rain and mud--that bir