letters to her father, and that sort of
thing?"

"From what little I have seen of Miss Vanrenen she is much more likely
to run off with you, my lord. But----"

"You're growing incoherent, Simmonds. For goodness' sake tell me
where I am to go. You can safely leave all the rest to me, and we
haven't a minute to lose if I am to secure any sort of a decent
motoring kit before I turn up at the hotel. Pull yourself together,
man. Action front and fire! Guns unlimbered and first range-finder
dispatched in nineteen seconds--eh, what?"

Simmonds squared his shoulders. He had been a driver in the Royal
Artillery before he joined Viscount Medenham's troop of Imperial
Yeomanry. There was no further argument. Dale, Oriental in phlegm now
that Eyot was safely backed, was already unscrewing the luggage
carrier.

Half an hour later, the Mercury curled with sinuous grace out of the
busy Strand into the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel. The inclosure
snorted with motors, the air was _petrolise_, all the world of the
hotel was going, or had already gone, to Epsom.

One quick glance at the lines of traffic showed Medenham that
the Swiss Rear-Admiral on duty would not allow him to remain an
unnecessary instant in front of the actual doorway. He swung his car
to the exit side, crept in behind a departing taxicab, and grabbed a
hurrying boy in buttons.

"You listen to me, boy," he said.

The boy remarked that his hearing was perfect.

"Well, go to Miss Vanrenen and say that her motor is waiting. Seize a
porter, and do not leave him until he has brought two canvas trunks
from the lady's rooms. Help him to strap them on the grid, and I'll
give each of you half-a-crown."

The boy vanished. Never before had a chauffeur addressed him so
convincingly.

Medenham, standing by the side of the car, was deep in the contours
of a road map of Sussex when a sweet if somewhat petulant voice,
apparently at his elbow, complained that its owner could not see
Simmonds anywhere. He turned instantly. A slim, straight-figured girl,
wearing a dust-cloak and motor veil, had come out from the Savoy Court
doorway and was scrutinizing every automobile in sight. Near her was a
short, stout woman whose personality seemed to be strangely familiar
to Medenham. He never forgot anyone, and this lady was certainly not
one of his acquaintances; nevertheless, her features, her robin-like
strut, her very amplitude of girth and singular rotundity of form,
came definite