And, indeed, many very clever people might have found themselves sinking in some such unexpected quicksand and be not one whit less bemused than the miserable chauffeur. Morally, he had given the only possible answer that left open a way of escape, and he had formed a sufficiently shrewd estimate of the relations between his master and the remarkably good-looking young lady whom the said master was serving with exemplary diligence to fear dire consequences to himself if he became the direct cause of a broken idyl. The position was even worse if he fell back on an artistic lie. The Earl was a dour person where servants were concerned, and Salomé did not demand John the Baptist’s head on a salver with greater gusto than the autocrat of Fairholme would insist on Dale’s dismissal when he discovered the facts. Talk of the horned dilemma—here was an unfortunate asked to choose which bristle of a porcupine he would sit upon.
The mere presence of his lordship in Bristol betokened a social atmosphere charged with electricity—a phase of the problem that constituted the only clear item in Dale’s seething brain: it was too much for him; in sudden desperation he determined to stick to the plain truth.
He had to elect very quickly, for the peppery-tempered Earl would not brook delay.
“Not gone to London, you say? Then where the devil has he gone to? A gentleman at the hotel, a French gentleman, who said he had met these—these persons with whom my son is gadding about the country, told me that they had left Bristol this morning for London, because a car that was expected to meet them here had broken down.”
Suddenly his lordship, a county magistrate noted for his sharpness, glanced at Simmonds. He marched round to the front of the car and saw that it was registered in London. He waved an accusing umbrella in air.
“What car is this? Is this the motor that won’t go? It seems to have reached Bristol all right? Now, my men, I must have a candid tale from each of you, or the consequences may be most disagreeable. You, I presume,” and he lunged en tierce at Simmonds, “have an employer of some sort, and I shall make it my business——”
“This is my own car, my lord,” said Simmonds stiffly. He could be stubborn as any member of the Upper House when occasion served. “Your lordship needn’t use any threats. Just ask me what you like an’ I’ll answer, if I can.”
Fairholme, by no means a hasty man in the ordinary affairs of life, and only upset now by the unforeseen annoyances of an unusually disquieting mission, realized that he was losing caste. It was a novel experience to be rebuked by a chauffeur, but he had the sense to swallow his wrath.
“Perhaps I ought to explain that I am particularly anxious to see Lord Medenham,” he said more calmly. “I left London at eight o’clock this morning, and it is most irritating to have missed him by a few minutes. I only wish to be assured as to his whereabouts, and, of course, I have no reason to believe that any sort of responsibility for my son’s movements rests with you.”
“That’s all right, my lord,” said Simmonds. “Viscount Medenham was very kind to me last Wednesday. I had a first-rate job, and was on my way to the Savoy Hotel to take it up, when a van ran into me an’ smashed the transmission shaft. His lordship met me in Down Street, an’ offered to run my two ladies to Epsom an’ along the south coast for a day or two while I repaired damages. I was to turn up here—an’ here I am—but it suited his arrangements better to go on with the tour, an’ that is all there is to it. A bit of a joke, I call it.”