here goes!” he growled under his breath. “If I come a purler it will not be for the first time where women are concerned.”
He laughed as he produced some lobster in aspic and a chicken.
“It is jolly useful to have as a friend a butler in a big house,” he said. “I didn’t know what Tomkinson had given me, but these confections look all right.”
Mrs. Devar’s glance dwelt on the crest the instant she took a plate. She smiled in her superior way. While Medenham was wrestling with the cork of a bottle of claret she whispered:
“This is screamingly funny, Cynthia. I have solved the riddle at last. Our chauffeur is using his master’s car and his master’s eatables as well.”
“Don’t care a cent,” said Cynthia, who found the lobster admirable.
“But if any inquiry is made and our names are mixed up in it, Mr. Vanrenen may be angry.”
“Father would be tickled to death. I shall insist on paying for everything, of course, and my responsibility ends there. No, thank you – ” this to Medenham who was offering her a glass of wine. “I drink water only. Have you any?”
Mrs. Devar took the wine, and Medenham fished in the basket for the St. Galmier, since Lady St. Maur cultivated gout with her biliousness.
“Dear me!” she murmured after a sip.
“What is it now?” asked Cynthia.
“Perfect, my dear. Such a bouquet! I wonder what house it came from,” and she pondered the crest again, but in vain, for heraldry is an exact science, and the greater part of her education had been given by a hard world. She did not fail, therefore, to notice that three persons were catered for by the packer of the basket. An unknown upper housemaid was already suspect, and now she added mentally “some shop-girl friend.” The climax was reached when Medenham staged the strawberries. Cynthia, to whom the good things of the table were commonplaces, ate them and was thankful, but Mrs. Devar made another note: “Ten shillings a basket, at the very least; and three baskets!”
A deep, booming yell from the mob proclaimed that the second race was in progress.
“I can’t see a thing unless I am perched on the seat, and if I stand up I shall upset the crockery,” announced Cynthia. “But I am not interested yet awhile. If Grimalkin wins I shall shout myself hoarse.”
“He hasn’t a ghost of a chance,” said Medenham.
“Oh, but he has. Mr. Deane told my father – ”
“But Tomkinson told me,” he interrupted.
“Tomkinson. Is that your butler friend?”
“Yes. He says the King’s horse will win.”
“Surely the owner of Grimalkin must know more about the race than a butler?”
“You would not think so, Miss Vanrenen, if you knew Tomkinson.”
“Where is he butler?” asked Mrs. Devar suavely.
“I forget for the moment, madam,” replied Medenham with equal suavity.
The lady waived the retort. She was sure of her ground now.
“In any case, I imagine that both Mr. Deane and this Tomkinson may be mistaken. I am told that a horse trained locally has a splendid chance – let me see – yes, here it is: the Honorable Charles Fenton’s Vendetta.”
It was well that those bulging steel-gray eyes were bent over the card, or they could not have failed to catch the flicker of amazement that swept across Medenham’s sun-browned face when he heard the name of his cousin. He had not been in England a full week as yet, and he happened not to have read a list of probable starters for the Derby. He had glanced at the programme during breakfast that morning, but some remark made by the Earl caused him to lay down the newspaper, and, when next he picked it up, he became interested in an article on the Cape to Cairo railway, written by someone who had not the remotest notion of the difficulties to be surmounted before that very desirable line can be constructed.
Cynthia, however, was watching him, and she laughed gleefully.
“Ah, Fitzroy, you hadn’t heard of Vendetta before,” she cried. “Confess now – your faith in Tomkinson is shaken.”
“Vendetta certainly does sound like war to the knife,” said he.
“It is twenty to one,” purred Mrs. Devar complacently. “I shall risk the five pounds I won on the first race, and it will be very nice if I receive a hundred.”
“I stick to Old Glory,” announced the valiant Cynthia.
“The King for me,” declared Medenham, though he realized, without any knowledge of the merits of the horses engaged, that the Honorable Charles was not the sort of man to run a three-year-old in the Derby merely for the sake of seeing his racing colors flashing in the sun.
Mrs. Devar kept to her word, and handed over the five pounds. Cynthia staked seven, the five she had won and the ten dollars of her original intent: whereupon Medenham said that he must cross the course and make these bets in the ring – would the ladies raise any objection to his absence, as he could not return until after the race? No, they were quite content to remain in the car, so he repacked the luncheon basket and left them.
Vendetta won by three lengths.
Medenham had secured twenty-five to one, and the bookmaker who paid him added the genial advice: “Put that little lot where the flies can’t get at it.” The man could afford to be affable, seeing that the bet was the only one in his book against the horse’s name. The King’s horse and Grimalkin were the public favorites, but both were hopelessly shut in at Tattenham Corner, and neither showed in the front rank at any stage of a fast run race. When Medenham climbed the hill again, hot and uncomfortable in his leather clothing, Mrs. Devar actually welcomed him with an expansive smile.
“What odds did you get me?” she cried, as soon as he was within earshot.
“A hundred and twenty-five pounds to five, madam,” he said.
“Oh, what luck! You must keep the odd five pounds, Fitzroy.”
“No, thank you. I hedged on Vendetta, so I am still winning.”
“But really, I insist.”
He handed her a bundle of notes.
“You will find a hundred and thirty pounds there,” he said, and she understood that his refusal to accept her money was final. She was intensely surprised that he had given her so much more than she expected, and the first unworthy thought was succeeded by a second – how dared this impudent chauffeur decline her bounty?
Cynthia pouted at him.
“Your Tomkinson is a fraud,” she said.
“Your Grimalkin was well named,” said he.
“That remark is very cutting, I suppose, Fitzroy.”
“Oh, no. I merely meant to convey that a cat is not a racehorse.”
“Poor fellow,” mused Cynthia, “he is vexed
