“Now,” said she, looking, not at Medenham, but at the Titanic cleft cut by a tiny river, “now, please, tell me all about it.”
“Just as at Cheddar, the rocks are limestone——” he began.
“Oh, bother the rocks! How did you get rid of Simmonds? And why is Count Marigny mad? And are you mixed up in Captain Devar’s mighty smart change of base? Tell me everything. I hate mysteries. If we go on at the present rate some of us will soon be wearing masks and cloaks, and stamping our feet, and saying ‘Ha! Ha!’ or ‘Sdeath!’ or something equally absurd.”
“Simmonds is a victim of science. If the earth wire of a magneto makes a metallic contact there is trouble in the cylinders, so Simmonds is switched off until he can locate the fault.”
“The work of a minute.”
“It will take him five days at least.”
Then Cynthia did flash an amused glance at him, but he was watching a small steamer puffing against the tide, and his face was adamant.
“Go on,” she cried quizzically. “What’s the matter with the Count’s cylinders?”
“He professed to believe that I had stolen somebody’s car, and graciously undertook to shield me if I would consent to run away at once, leaving you and Mrs. Devar to finish your tour in the Du Vallon.”