CHAPTER VII
WHEREIN CYNTHIA TAKES HER OWN LINE
When the Mercury, shining from Dale’s attentions, halted noiselessly opposite the College Green Hotel on the Saturday morning, Count Edouard Marigny was standing there; the Du Vallon was not in evidence, and its owner’s attire bespoke other aims than motoring, at any rate for the hour.
Evidently he was well content with himself. A straw hat was set on the back of his head, a cigarette stuck between his lips, his hands were thrust into his trousers pockets, and his feet were spread widely apart. Taken altogether, he had the air of a man without a care in the world.
He smiled, too, in the most friendly fashion, when Medenham’s eyes met his.
“I hear that Simmonds is unable to carry out his contract,” he said cheerfully.
“You are mistaken, a second time, monsieur,” said Medenham.
“Why, then, are you here this morning?”
“I am acting for Simmonds. If anything, my car is slightly superior to his, while I may be regarded as an equally competent driver, so the contract is kept in all essentials.”