ar from
Hereford. Really, Mr. Fitzroy, don't you think you ought to skate by
the next train?"

"I prefer waiting till to-morrow evening if you will permit it," he
said humbly.

Cynthia was lashing herself into a very fair semblance of hot anger.
She felt that she was trammeled in a net of deception, and, like the
freedom-loving American that she was, she resented the toils none the
less because their strands remained invisible. Seeing Medenham's
crestfallen aspect at her unjust charge with reference to Dale's
presence, she bit her lip with a laugh of annoyance and turned on Mrs.
Devar.

"It seems to me," she cried, "that Count Edouard Marigny has been
taking an interest in me that is certainly not warranted by any
encouragement on my part. Open your letter, Mrs. Devar, and see if he,
too, is on the London trail.... Ah, well--perhaps I am mistaken. I was
so vexed for the moment that I thought he might have telegraphed to
father when we did not turn up at Hereford. Of course, that is sheer
nonsense. He couldn't have done it. Father was in England before
Monsieur Marigny was aware of our failure to connect with Hereford.
I'm sure I don't know what is vexing me, but something is, or
somebody, and I want to quarrel with it, or him, or her, real bad."

Without waiting for any opening of Marigny's note she ran off to her
room. Medenham had turned to leave the hotel when he heard a gurgling
cry:

"Mr. Fitzroy--Lord Medenham--what does it all mean?"

Mrs. Devar's distress was pitiable. Snatches of talk overheard in
Paris and elsewhere warned her that Mrs. Leland would prove an
unconquerable foe. She was miserably conscious that her own letter,
posted overnight, would rise up in judgment against her, but already
she had devised the plausible excuse that the very qualities which
were excellent in a viscount were most dangerous in a chauffeur.
Nevertheless, the letter, ill-advised though it might be, could not
account for Peter Vanrenen's sudden visit to England. She might
torture her wits for a year without hitting on the truth, since the
summoning of the millionaire to the rescue appeared to be the last
thing Count Edouard Marigny would dream of doing. She actually held in
her hand a summary of the telegrams he had dispatched from Bristol,
but her mind was too confused to work in its customary grooves, and
she blurted out Medenham's title in a frantic attempt to gain his
support.

"It means this," he said coolly, resol