“I am sure Miss Vanrenen felt safe while in my care,” was all he dared to say, but Cynthia promptly understood his perplexity and came to his aid.
“Mrs. Devar thinks far more of our adventure than we do,” she broke in. “Our chief difficulty lay in finding the road. The only time I felt worried was when you crossed the river to retrieve the ferryboat. But surely I have caused enough excitement for to-night. You ought to take some hot lemonade and go to bed.”
A man who had walked up the hill from the boathouse with Medenham laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Come along, old chap!” he cried. “You certainly want a hot draught of some sort, and you must not hang about in those wet clothes.”
“Yes,” purred Mrs. Devar, “don’t run the risk of catching cold, Fitzroy. It would spoil everything if you were laid up.”
Her gracious manner almost deceived Medenham. During his years of wandering he had come across unexpected good qualities in men from whom he looked for naught but evil—was it the same with women? He hoped so. Perhaps this scheming marriage-broker had shed her worldly scales under the stress of emotion.
“You need have no fear that the car will not be waiting for you in the morning, Mrs. Devar,” he said, smiling frankly into her steel-gray eyes. “Did you say half-past nine, Miss Vanrenen?” he asked, turning to snatch one last look at Cynthia.
“Yes. Good-night—and thank you.”
She offered her hand to him before them all. The touch of her cool fingers was infinitely sweet, but when he strove to surprise some hint of her thought in those twin pools of limpid light that were wont to gaze at him so fearlessly he failed, for all the daring had fled from Cynthia, and he knew—how Heaven and lovers alone can tell—that her heart was beating with a fright she had not felt when he staggered under the relentless pressure of the river while holding her in his arms.