with careful eyes since Medenham first spoke.
“What do you think, Mrs. Devar?” she said.
When he heard the name, Medenham was so amazed that the last vestige of chauffeurism vanished from his manner.
“You don’t mean to say you are Jimmy Devar’s mother?” he gasped.
Mrs. Devar positively jumped. If a look could have slain he would have fallen then and there. As it was, she tried to freeze him to death.
“Do I understand that you are speaking of Captain Devar, of Horton’s Horse?” she said, aloof as an iceberg.
“Yes,” said he coolly, though regretting the lapse. He had stupidly brought about an awkward incident, and must remember in future not to address either lady as an equal.
“I was not aware that my son was on familiar terms with the chauffeur fraternity.”
“Sorry, but the name slipped out unawares. Captain Devar is, or used to be, very easy-going in his ways, you know.”
“So it would seem.” She turned her back on him disdainfully. “In the circumstances, Cynthia,” she said, “I am inclined to believe that we ought to make further inquiries before we exchange cars, and drivers, in this fashion.”
“But what is to be done? All our arrangements are made – our rooms ordered – I have even sent father each day’s address. If we cancel everything by telegraph he will be alarmed.”
“Oh, I did not mean that,” protested the lady hurriedly. It was evident that she hardly knew what to say. Medenham’s wholly unexpected query had unnerved her.
“Is there any alternative?” demanded Cynthia ruefully, glancing from one to the other.
“It is rather late to hire another car to-day, I admit – ” began Mrs. Devar.
“It would be quite impossible, madam,” put in Medenham. “This is Derby Day, and there is not a motor to be obtained in London except a taxicab. It was sheer good luck for Simmonds that he was able to secure me as his deputy.”
He thanked his stars for that word “madam.” Certainly the mere sound of it seemed to soothe Mrs. Devar’s jarred nerves, and the appearance of the Mercury was even more reassuring.
“Ah, well,” she said, “we are not traveling into the wilds. If desirable, we can always return to town by train. By the way, chauffeur, what is your name?”
For an instant Medenham hesitated. Then he took the plunge, strong in the belief that a half-forgotten transaction between himself and “Jimmy” Devar would prevent that impecunious warrior from discussing him freely in the family circle.
“George Augustus Fitzroy,” he said.
Mrs. Devar’s brows knitted; she was regaining her self-possession, and a sarcastic smile now chased away a perplexing thought. She was about to say something when Cynthia Vanrenen broke in excitedly:
“I declare to goodness if the hotel people have not fastened on our boxes already. They seem to know our minds better than we do ourselves. And here is the man with the wraps… Please be careful with that camera… Yes, put it there, with the glasses. What are you doing, Fitzroy?” for Medenham was discharging his obligations to the boy in buttons and a porter.
“Paying my debts,” said he, smiling at her.
“Of course you realize that I pay all expenses?” she said, with just the requisite note of hauteur in her voice that the situation called for.
“This is entirely a personal matter, I assure you, Miss Vanrenen.”
Medenham could not help smiling; he stooped and felt a tire unnecessarily. Cynthia was puzzled. She wrote that evening to Irma Norris, her cousin in Philadelphia – “Fitzroy is a new line in chauffeurs.”
“By the way, where is your trunk?” she demanded suddenly.
“I came away unexpectedly, so I have arranged that it shall be sent to Brighton by rail,” he explained.
Apparently, there was nothing more to be said. The two ladies seated themselves, and the car sped out into the Strand. They watched the driver’s adroit yet scrupulously careful dealing with the traffic, and Cynthia, at least, quickly grasped the essential fact that the six cylinders worked with a silent power that held cheap every other vehicle passed or overtaken on the road.
“It is a lovely automobile,” she murmured with a little sigh of satisfaction.
“Quite an up-to-date car, I fancy,” agreed her friend.
“I don’t understand how this man, Fitzroy, can afford to use it for hiring purposes. Yet, that is his affair – not mine. I rather like him. Don’t you?”
“His manners are somewhat off-hand, but such persons are given to aping their superiors. George Augustus Fitzroy, too – it is ridiculous. Fitzroy is the family name of the Earls of Fairholme, and their eldest sons have been christened George Augustus ever since the beginning of the eighteenth century.”
“The name seems to fit our chauffeur all right, and I guess he has as good a claim to it as any other man.”
Cynthia was apt to flaunt the Stars and Stripes when Mrs. Devar aired her class conventions, and the older woman had the tact to agree with a careless nod. Nevertheless, had Cynthia Vanrenen known how strictly accurate was her comment she would have been the most astounded girl in London at that minute. The Viscountcy, of course, was nothing more than a courtesy title; in the cold eye of the law, Medenham’s full legal name was that which Mrs. Devar deemed ridiculous. As events shaped themselves, it was of the utmost importance to Cynthia, and to Medenham, and to several other persons who had not yet risen above their common horizon, that Mrs. Devar’s sneer should pass unchallenged. Though that lady herself was not fashioned of the softer human clay which expresses its strenuous emotions by fainting fits or hysteria, some such feminine expedient would certainly have prevented her from going another hundred yards along the south road had some wizard told her how nearly she had guessed the truth.
But the luck of the born adventurer saved Medenham from premature exposure. “I dare all” was the motto of his house, and it was fated to be tested in full measure ere he saw London again. Of these considerations the purring Mercury neither knew nor cared. She sang the song of the free highway, and sped through the leafy lanes of Surrey with a fine disregard for Acts of Parliament and the “rules and regulations therein made and provided.” Soon after one o’clock, however, she was compelled to climb the road to the downs in meek agreement with two lines of toiling chars-à-bancs and laboring motors. Just to show her mettle when the opportunity offered, she took the steep hill opposite the stands with a greyhound rush that vastly disconcerted a policeman who told Medenham to “hurry up out of the dip.”
Then, having found a clear space, she dozed for a while, and Cynthia, like a true-born American, began the day’s business by giving the answer before either of her companions even thought of putting the Great Question.
“Grimalkin will win!” she cried. “Mr. Deane told my father so. I want to play Grimalkin for ten dollars!”
CHAPTER II
THE FIRST DAY’S RUN
Though Medenham was no turf devotee, he formed distinctly unfavorable conclusions as to the
