“Would your lordship mind if I sent the boy to the Savoy Hotel first?” he asked nervously. “It is rather late, and Miss Vanrenen will be expecting me.”

“What time are you due at the Savoy?”

“We were to start at twelve o’clock, but the ladies’ luggage had to be strapped on, and – ”

“Ah, the deuce! That sounds formidable.”

“Of course they must stow everything into the canvas trunks I supplied, my lord.”

Medenham stooped and examined the screws which fastened an iron grid at the back of the broken-down vehicle.

“Whip open the tool box, Dale, and transfer that arrangement to my car,” he said briskly. “Make it fit somehow. I don’t approve of damaged paintwork, nor of weight behind the driving-wheels for that matter, but time presses, and the ladies might shy at a request to repack their belongings into my kit-bags, even if I were carrying them. Now, Simmonds, give me the route, if you know it, and hand over your road maps. I mean to take your place until your car is put right. Wire me where to expect you. You ought to be ship-shape in three days, at the utmost.”

“My lord – ” began the overwhelmed Simmonds.

“I’ll see you hanged as high as Haman before I hand over my Mercury to you, if that is what you are thinking of,” said Medenham sharply. “Why, man, she is built like a watch. It would take you a month to understand her. Now, you boy, be off to Sevastopolo’s. Where can I buy a chauffeur’s kit, Simmonds?”

“Your lordship is really too kind. I couldn’t think of permitting it,” muttered Simmonds.

“What, then – do you refuse my assistance?”

“It isn’t that, my lord. I am awfully grateful – ”

“Are you afraid that I shall run off with Miss Vanrenen – hold her to ransom – send Black Hand letters to her father, and that sort of thing?”

“From what little I have seen of Miss Vanrenen she is much more likely to run off with you, my lord. But – ”

“You’re growing incoherent, Simmonds. For goodness’ sake tell me where I am to go. You can safely leave all the rest to me, and we haven’t a minute to lose if I am to secure any sort of a decent motoring kit before I turn up at the hotel. Pull yourself together, man. Action front and fire! Guns unlimbered and first range-finder dispatched in nineteen seconds – eh, what?”

Simmonds squared his shoulders. He had been a driver in the Royal Artillery before he joined Viscount Medenham’s troop of Imperial Yeomanry. There was no further argument. Dale, Oriental in phlegm now that Eyot was safely backed, was already unscrewing the luggage carrier.

Half an hour later, the Mercury curled with sinuous grace out of the busy Strand into the courtyard of the Savoy Hotel. The inclosure snorted with motors, the air was petrolisé, all the world of the hotel was going, or had already gone, to Epsom.

One quick glance at the lines of traffic showed Medenham that the Swiss Rear-Admiral on duty would not allow him to remain an unnecessary instant in front of the actual doorway. He swung his car to the exit side, crept in behind a departing taxicab, and grabbed a hurrying boy in buttons.

“You listen to me, boy,” he said.

The boy remarked that his hearing was perfect.

“Well, go to Miss Vanrenen and say that her motor is waiting. Seize a porter, and do not leave him until he has brought two canvas trunks from the lady’s rooms. Help him to strap them on the grid, and I’ll give each of you half-a-crown.”

The boy vanished. Never before had a chauffeur addressed him so convincingly.

Medenham, standing by the side of the car, was deep in the contours of a road map of Sussex when a sweet if somewhat petulant voice, apparently at his elbow, complained that its owner could not see Simmonds anywhere. He turned instantly. A slim, straight-figured girl, wearing a dust-cloak and motor veil, had come out from the Savoy Court doorway and was scrutinizing every automobile in sight. Near her was a short, stout woman whose personality seemed to be strangely familiar to Medenham. He never forgot anyone, and this lady was certainly not one of his acquaintances; nevertheless, her features, her robin-like strut, her very amplitude of girth and singular rotundity of form, came definitely within the net of his retentive memory.

To be sure, he gave her but brief survey, since her companion, in all likelihood Miss Vanrenen, might quite reasonably attract his attention. Indeed, she would find favor in the eyes of any young man, let alone one who had such cause as Viscount Medenham to be interested in her appearance. In her amazingly lovely face the haughty beauty of an aristocrat was softened by a touch of that piquant femininity which the well-bred American girl seems to bring from Paris with her clothes. A mass of dark brown hair framed a forehead, nose, and mouth of almost Grecian regularity, while her firmly modeled chin, slightly more pronounced in type, would hint at unusual strength of character were not the impression instantly dispelled by the changing lights in a pair of marvelously blue eyes. In the course of a single second Medenham found himself comparing them to blue diamonds, to the azure depths of a sunlit sea, to the exquisite tint of the myosotis. Then he swallowed his surprise, and lifted his cap.

“May I ask if you are Miss Vanrenen?” he said.

The blue eyes met his. For the first time in his life he was thrilled to the core by a woman’s glance.

“Yes.”

She answered with a smile, an approving smile, perhaps, for the viscount looked very smart in his tight-fitting uniform, but none the less wondering.

“Then I am here instead of Simmonds. His car was put out of commission an hour ago by a brutal railway van, and will not be ready for the road during the next day or two. May I offer my services in the meantime?”

The girl’s astonished gaze traveled from Medenham to the spick and span automobile. For the moment he had forgotten his rôle, and each word he uttered deepened her bewilderment, which grew stronger when she looked at the Mercury. The sleek coachwork and spotless leather upholstery, the shining brass fittings and glistening wings, every visible detail in fact, gave good promise of the excellence of the engine stowed away beneath the square bonnet. Evidently Miss Vanrenen had cultivated the habit of gathering information rapidly.

“This car?” she exclaimed, with a delightful lifting of arched eyebrows.

“Yes, you will not be disappointed in it, I assure you. I am doing Simmonds a friendly turn in taking his place, so I hope the slight accident will not make any difference to your plans.”

“But – why has not Simmonds himself come to explain matters?”

“He could not leave his car, which is in a side street off Piccadilly. He would have sent a note, but he remembered that you had never seen his handwriting, so, as a proof of my genuineness, he gave me your itinerary.”

Medenham produced a closely-written sheet of note-paper, which Miss Vanrenen presumably recognized. She turned to her stout companion, who had been summing up car and chauffeur 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!”