for all the owner might have taken his accent
from his groom, he was mightily pleased with it.

I hadn't looked at the chap at first, but when I heard him telling his
meek little exclamatory friend stories about a lot of my own friends
(invariably making his impression by mentioning their titles first, then
dropping into Christian names), I did take a glance at him over my
shoulder.

I found him a curious combination of Sherlock Holmes and Little Lord
Fauntleroy. He might have "gone on" at a moment's notice as understudy
either for Mr. William Gillette in the one part, or for that clever
little What's-his-name who resurrected the latter in London lately;
though as for his dramatic talent, I've yet to judge, and may be called
upon to do so, as you shall hear.

He went on gassing about all sorts of impossible feats he'd accomplished
on a Panhard car, which he alluded to as his. According to himself,
Fournier wasn't in it with him. Having heard to the end the tale of a
motor race in which Sherlock-Fauntleroy, in company with the Duke of
Bedford, had beaten King Edward the Seventh, the other man, deeply
impressed, inquired through his nose (which he, being frankly
Far-Western, didn't mind using as a channel of communication) whether
his magnificent acquaintance was at present travelling on the famous
Panhard, and had it with him.

"No," was the answer; "fact is I got a bit tired of keeping the road,
and lent my car to my old friend Montie--Lord Lane, don't you know,
who's running it about the Riviera now."

Aha, my boy, does that make you sit up? I assure you it did me. And if,
just before, I hadn't heard the gentleman discoursing on the pleasures
of a certain trip taken with Burford at a date when you and Burford and
I happened to be together, I should have sat still straighter. I might
have said to myself, "So all is discovered. My Montie--or rather his
Montie--has taken a leaf out of Brown's book, and instead of stuffing
himself with fresh air and eggs at Davos, is flashing about the Riviera
in his dear chum's Panhard, which he must have lately learnt to drive,
as he didn't know gearing from belts when I saw him last." As it is,
however, I assure you no such suspicions are at present keeping me
awake; I've enough worries of my own to do that.

But Fauntleroy-Holmes was continuing, and I sat in my obscure corner
inhaling his tobacco smoke and his equally ephemeral anecdotes.

"I am going on to Nice myself in a da