ris yesterday afternoon, and found he had just time
to send me a line by paying a special postal fee at Paddington....
What?... Mrs. Leland going to join us at Chester!... Wire if I get
this!..."

She reread the letter with heightened color. Medenham's heart sank to
his boots while he watched her. Whosoever Mrs. Leland might be--and
Cynthia's first cry of the name sent a shock of recognition through
him--it was fully evident that the addition of another member to the
party would straightway shut him out of his Paradise. Mrs. Devar, in
the role of guardian, had been disposed of satisfactorily, but "Mrs.
Leland" was more than a doubtful quantity. For some kindred reason,
perhaps, Cynthia chose to turn and look at the sparkling Wye when next
she spoke.

"I don't see why Mrs. Leland's unexpected appearance should make any
real difference to our tour," she said in the colorless tone of one
who seeks rather than imparts conviction. "There is plenty of room in
the car. We must take the front seat in turn, that is all."

"May I ask who Mrs. Leland is?" he asked, and, if his voice was
ominously cold, it may be urged in extenuation that in matters
affecting Cynthia he was no greater adept at concealing his thoughts
than the girl herself.

"An old friend of ours," she explained hurriedly. "In fact, her
husband was my father's partner till he died, some years ago. She is a
charming woman, quite a cosmopolitan. She lives in Paris 'most all the
time, but I fancied she was at Trouville for the summer. I wonder...."

She read the letter a third time. Drooping lids and a screen of heavy
eyelashes veiled her eyes, and when the fingers holding that
disturbing note rested on the rail of the veranda again, still those
radiant blue eyes remained invisible, and the eloquent eyebrows were
not arched in laughing bewilderment but straightened in silent
questioning.

"Mr. Vanrenen gives no details," she said at last, and seldom, indeed,
did "Mr. Vanrenen" replace "father" in her speech. "Perhaps he was
writing against time, though he might have told me less about the post
and more of Mrs. Leland. Anyhow, he has a fine Italian hand in some
things, and may be this is one of them.... But I must telegraph at
once."

Medenham roused himself to set forth British idiosyncrasies on the
question of Sunday labor. He remembered the telephone, however, and
Cynthia went off to try and get in touch with the Savoy Hotel. He
withdrew a little way, and