“Now, Simmonds,” went on the pleasant, lazy voice, “you see how I have comforted Dale by taking his money; won’t you tell me what is the real obstacle that blocks the way? Are you afraid to face this imperious young lady?”
“No, my lord. No man can provide against an accident of this sort. But Miss Vanrenen will lose all confidence in me. The arrangement was that to-day’s spin should be a short one—to Brighton. I was to take the ladies to Epsom in time for the Derby, and then we were to run quietly to the Metropole. Miss Vanrenen made such a point of seeing the race that she will be horribly disappointed. There is an American horse entered——”
“By gad, another gambler!”
Simmonds laughed grimly.
“I don’t think Miss Vanrenen knows much about racing, my lord, but the owner of Grimalkin is a friend of her father’s, and he is confident about winning this year.”
“I am beginning to understand. You are in a fix of sorts, Simmonds.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And what is your plan? I suppose you have one.”
“I have sent for a boy messenger, my lord. When he arrives I shall write—Oh, here he is.”
Viscount Medenham descended leisurely and lit a cigarette. Dale, the stoic, folded his arms and looked fixedly at the press of vehicles passing the end of the street. Vivid memories of Lord Medenham’s chivalrous courtesy—his lordship’s dashed tomfoolery he called it—warned him that life was about to assume new interests.