Both brother and sister had laughed many a time at the stage version of a Briton as presented in Paris, but they forgot that the average Englishman’s conception of the average American is equally ludicrous in its blunders. In devising means “to save George” they flew into a panic. Lady St. Maur telegraphed a frantic appeal to Lady Porthcawl for information, but “dear Millicent” took thought, saw that she was already sufficiently committed, and caused her maid to reply that she had left Bournemouth for the weekend.
A telegram to the hotel manager produced more definite news. Cynthia, providing against the receipt of any urgent message from her father, had given the College Green Hotel as her address for the night; but this intelligence arrived too late to permit of the Earl’s departure till next morning. Lady Porthcawl’s hint that the “devoted George was traveling incognito” prevented the use of wire or post. If the infatuated viscount were to be brought to reason there was nothing for it but that the Earl should hurry to Bristol by an early train next morning. He did hurry, and arrived five minutes too late.
Marigny, of course, saw that lightning had darted from a summer sky. If the despised chauffeur had proved such a tough opponent, what would happen now that he turned out to be a sprig of the aristocracy? He guessed at once that the Earl of Fairholme appraised Cynthia Vanrenen by the Devar standard. He knew that five minutes in Cynthia’s company would alter this doughty old gentleman’s views so greatly that his present fury would give place to idolatry. No matter what the cost, they two must not meet, and it was very evident that if Hereford were mentioned as the night’s rendezvous, the Earl would proceed there by the next train.
What was to be done? He decided promptly. Lifting his hat, and offering Lord Fairholme his card, he made up his mind to lie, and lie speciously, with circumstantial detail and convincing knowledge.
“I happened to meet the Vanrenens in Paris,” he said. “Business brought me here, and I was surprised to see Miss Vanrenen without her father. You will pardon my reference to your son, I am sure. His attitude is explicable now. He resented my offer of friendly assistance to the young lady. Perhaps he thought she might avail herself of it.”
“Assistance? What is the matter?”
“She had arranged for a car to meet her here. As it was not forthcoming, she altered her plans for a tour of Oxford, Kenilworth, and Warwick, and has gone in Viscount—Viscount——”
“Medenham’s.”
“Ah, yes—I did not catch the name precisely—in your son’s car to London.”
By this time Lord Fairholme had ascertained the Frenchman’s description, and he was sufficiently well acquainted with the Valley of the Loire to recollect the Château Marigny as a house of some importance.