e should be scared off the instant he set eyes on
me."

Then Medenham resolved to end a catechism that opened up illimitable
vistas, for he did not want to lose Cynthia just yet, and there was no
knowing what she might do if she suspected the truth. Although, if the
situation were strictly dissected, Mrs. Devar's chaperonage was as
useful to him as the lady herself intended it to be to Marigny, there
was a vital difference between the two sets of circumstances. He had
been pitchforked by fate into the company of a charming girl whom he
was learning to love as he had never loved woman before, whereas the
members of the money-hunting gang whose scheme he had accidentally
overheard at Brighton were engaged in a deliberate intrigue, outlined
in Paris as soon as Mr. Vanrenen planned the motor tour for his
daughter, and perfected during Cynthia's brief stay in London.

So he appealed for her forbearance on a plea that he imagined was sure
to succeed.

"I don't wish to conceal from you that Captain Devar and I have fallen
out in the past," he said. "But I am genuinely sorry for his mother,
who certainly does not know what a rascal he is. Don't ask me for
further details now, Miss Vanrenen. He will not cross your path in the
near future, and I promise to tell you the whole story long before
there is any chance of your meeting him again."

For some reason, deep hidden yet delicately distinct, Cynthia
extracted a good deal more from that simple speech than the mere words
implied. The air of the downs was peculiarly fresh and strong in the
center of the bridge, a fact which probably accounted for the vivid
color that lit her face and added luster to her bright eyes. At any
rate, she dropped the conversation suddenly.

"Mrs. Devar will be growing quite impatient," she said, with an
admirable assumption of ease, "and I want to buy some pictures of this
pretty toy bridge of yours. What a pity the light is altogether wrong
for a snapshot, and it _is_ so stupid to use films when one knows that
the sun is in the camera!"

Whereat Medenham breathed freely again, while thanking the gods for
the delightfully effective resources that every woman--even a candid,
outspoken Cynthia--has at her fingers' ends.

The simplest means of reaching the Gloucester road was to run back
past the hotel, but the goddess of happy chance elected, for her own
purposes, that Medenham should ask a policeman to direct him to
Cabot's Tower, and, the man h