“He could not leave his car, which is in a side street off Piccadilly. He would have sent a note, but he remembered that you had never seen his handwriting, so, as a proof of my genuineness, he gave me your itinerary.”
Medenham produced a closely-written sheet of note-paper, which Miss Vanrenen presumably recognized. She turned to her stout companion, who had been summing up car and chauffeur with careful eyes since Medenham first spoke.
“What do you think, Mrs. Devar?” she said.
When he heard the name, Medenham was so amazed that the last vestige of chauffeurism vanished from his manner.
“You don’t mean to say you are Jimmy Devar’s mother?” he gasped.
Mrs. Devar positively jumped. If a look could have slain he would have fallen then and there. As it was, she tried to freeze him to death.
“Do I understand that you are speaking of Captain Devar, of Horton’s Horse?” she said, aloof as an iceberg.
“Yes,” said he coolly, though regretting the lapse. He had stupidly brought about an awkward incident, and must remember in future not to address either lady as an equal.
“I was not aware that my son was on familiar terms with the chauffeur fraternity.”
“Sorry, but the name slipped out unawares. Captain Devar is, or used to be, very easy-going in his ways, you know.”