“Thank you kindly, ma’am. Hi’ll take his nyme jes’ the syme, as a matter of juty.”
There was a pause in which two disconcerted persons faced each other with perplexed looks.
“Certainly—certainly—er—but I am not this lady’s husband....”
“Then—wot is she makin’ such a goin’ hon habout yer for?” severely.
“Well—I—er—I’m—her chauffeur.”
“Yes!” she echoed, almost sobbing in her relief. “Yes! he’s the chauffeur.”
The impromptu motorist continued:
“You see—er—there was a party this evening and I drove some of the guests home—er—I had just returned. So—er—that was how it happened I was so late—two-forty-five I think you said, by the cherry-ripe timepiece.”
“Yes! that was it,” Rosamond assisted cheerfully. Her chauffeur! Wonderful vagabond! How cleverly he had extricated her from a problem which, in Roseborough, could have had but one—and that a fatal—termination.
“Wot Hi’d like to know is, w’y was you standin’ on the porch railin’ w’en Hi was comin’ hup the road?” Mr. Marks, it appeared, had an unfortunate memory for details.