in to be seen.
But they had followed that road once only. It was impossible to
determine off-hand whether they had come or gone, but, if they came
from Bristol, then most certainly they had not returned.

Medenham took nothing for granted. Dusk was advancing, and he must
make no mistake at this stage. He ran the Mercury slowly ahead, not
taking his gaze off the telltale signs. At last he found what he was
looking for. The broad scars left by a heavy cart crossed the studs,
and had crossed after the passage of the car. Thus he eliminated the
vagaries of chance. Marigny had _not_ taken the road to Bristol--he
_must_ be on the other one--since no cart was in sight.

Medenham backed and turned. Mrs. Devar, of course, grew agitated.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

Medenham resolved to end this farce of pretense, else he would not be
answerable for the manner of his speech.

"I mean to find Miss Vanrenen," he said. "Pray let that suffice for
the hour. Any further explanation you may require can be given at
Bristol and in her presence."

Mrs. Devar began to sob. He heard her, and of all things that he hated
it was to become the cause of a woman's tears. But his lips closed in
a thin seam, and he drove fast to the fork in the roads. Another halt
here, and the briefest scrutiny showed that his judgment had not
erred. The Du Vallon had passed this point twice. If it came from
Bristol in the first instance it had gone now to some unfamiliar
wilderness that skirted the whole northeastern slopes of the Mendips.

He leaped back to the driving seat, and Mrs. Devar made one more
despairing effort to regain control of a situation that had slipped
from her grasp nearly an hour ago.

"Please do be sensible, Fitzroy!" she almost screamed. "Even if he
_has_ made a mistake in a turning, Count Marigny will take every care
of Miss Vanrenen----"

It was useless. She was appealing to a man of stone, and, indeed,
Medenham could not pay heed to her then in any circumstances, for the
road surface quickly became very rough, and it needed all his skill to
guide his highly-strung car over its inequalities without inflicting
an injury that might prove disastrous.

His only consolation was provided by the knowledge that the risk to a
stout Mercury was as naught compared with the tortures endured by a
French-built racer, with its long wheel-base and low chassis. After a
couple of miles of semi-miraculous advance his respect for Smith's