Marigny still smiled. The Frenchman of mid-Victorian romance would have shelved this point by indulging in “an inimitable shrug”; but nowadays Parisians of the Count’s type do not shrug—with John Bull’s clothing they have adopted no small share of his stolidness.
“It is immaterial,” he said. “I have sent my man to offer him my Du Vallon, and Smith will go with him to explain its humors. You, as a skilled motorist, understand that a car is of the feminine gender. Like any other charming demoiselle, it demands the exercise of tact—it yields willingly to gentle handling——”
Medenham cut short the Count’s neatly turned phrases.
“Simmonds has no need to avail himself of your courtesy,” he said. “As for the rest, give me your address in Paris, and when next I visit the French capital I shall be delighted to analyze these subtleties with you.”
“Ah, most admirable! But the really vital question before us to-day is your address in London, Mr. Fitzroy.”
Marigny dwelt on the surname as if it were a succulent oyster, and, in the undeniable surprise of the moment, Medenham was forced to believe that “Captain” Devar, formerly of Horton’s Horse, had dared all by telling his confederate the truth, or some part of the truth. The two men looked squarely at each other, and Marigny did not fail to misinterpret the dubious frown on Medenham’s face.
He descended a step or two, and crossed the pavement leisurely, dropping his voice so that it might not reach the ears of a porter, laden with the ladies’ traveling boxes, who appeared in the doorway.
“Why should we quarrel?” he asked, with an engaging frankness well calculated to reassure a startled evildoer. “In this matter I am anxious to treat you as a gentleman. Allons, donc! Hurry off instantly, and tell Simmonds to bring the Du Vallon here. Leave me to explain everything to Miss Vanrenen. Surely you agree that she ought to be spared the unpleasantness of a wrangle—or, shall we say, an exposure? You see,” he continued with a trifle more animation, and speaking in French, “the game is not worth the candle. In a few hours, at the least, you will be in the hands of the police, whereas, by reaching London to-night, you may be able to pacify the Earl of Fairholme. I can help, perhaps. I will say all that is possible, and my testimony ought to carry some weight.”
Medenham was thoroughly mystified. That the Frenchman was not yet aware of his identity was now clear enough, though, with Devar’s probable duplicity still running in his mind, he could not solve the puzzle presented by this vaunted half-knowledge.