exquisite Lady Chapel, and to the Chapter-House
Stairs, and to Peter Lightfoot's quaint old clock in the transept.
Then, by some alchemy worked on a lodgekeeper, he led her to the
gardens of the Bishop's palace, and showed her the real Glastonbury
Thorn, and even persuaded one of the swans in the moat to ring the
bell attached to the wall whereby each morning for many a year the
royal birds have obtained their breakfast.

There is no lovelier garden in England than that of Wells Palace, and
Cynthia was so rapt in it that even Medenham had to pull out his watch
and remind her of dusty roads leading to far-off Bristol.

Mrs. Devar looked so sour when they came from an inspection of one of
the seven wells to which the town owes its name that Cynthia weakened
and sat by her side. Thereupon Medenham made amends for lost time by
exceeding the speed limit along every inch of the run to Cheddar.

Of course he had to crawl through the narrow streets of the little
town, above which the bare crests of the Mendips give such slight
promise of the glorious gorge that cuts through their massiveness from
south to north. Even at the very lip of the magnificent canyon the
outlook is deceptive. Perhaps it is that the eye is caught by the
flaring advertisements of the stalactite caves, or that baser emotions
are awakened by the sight of cozy tea-gardens--of one in particular,
where a cascade tumbles headlong from the black rocks, and a
tree-shaded lawn offers rest and coolness after hours passed in the
hot sun.

Be that as it may, "tea" had a welcome sound, and Medenham, who had
lunched on bread and beer and pickles, was glad to halt at the
entrance of the inn that boasted a waterfall in its grounds.

The road was narrow, and packed with chars-a-bancs awaiting their
hordes of noisy trippers. Some of the men were tipsy, and Medenham
feared for the Mercury's paint. To the left of the hotel lay a
spacious yard that looked inviting. He backed in there when the ladies
had alighted, and ran alongside an automobile on which "Paris" and
"speed" were written in characters legible to the motorist.

A chauffeur was lounging against the stable wall and smoking.

"Hello," said Medenham affably, "what sort of car is that?"

"A 59 Du Vallon," was the answer. Then the man's face lit up with
curiosity.

"Yours is a New Mercury, isn't it?" he cried. "Was that car at
Brighton on Wednesday night?"

"Yes," growled Medenham; he knew what to expect,