It is not to be denied that he extracted some cold comfort from that last cryptic remark. Cynthia wanted to come, but Mrs. Devar had evidently burked the excursion. Why? Because Cynthia’s escort would be Viscount Medenham and not Arthur Simmonds, orthodox and highly respectable chauffeur. But Mrs. Devar plainly declared herself on the side of Viscount Medenham last night. Why, then, did she stop a short journey by motor, with the laudable objective of hearing an anthem and a sermon in a cathedral, when overnight she permitted the far less defensible trip on the river with the hated Fitzroy? It needed no great penetration to solve this puzzle. Mrs. Devar was afraid of some development that might happen if the girl visited Hereford that day. She counted on Medenham being chained to Symon’s Yat while Cynthia was there—consequently she had heard something from Dale that rendered it eminently necessary that neither he nor Cynthia should be seen in Hereford on the Sunday. Probably, too, she did not anticipate that Cynthia would don the haircloth of self-discipline and avoid him during the whole of the day, since that was what the girl meant by her allusion to Monday’s starting-time.
Perhaps, using a woman’s privilege, she might change her mind towards sunset; meanwhile, it behooved him to visit Hereford and pry into things there.
Nevertheless, he was a wise lover. Cynthia might dismiss him graciously to follow his own behests, but it might not please her if she discovered that he had taken her permission too literally. He entered the hotel and wrote a letter:
“My dear Miss Vanrenen——” no pretense of “Madam” or other social formula, but a plain and large “My dear,” with the name appended as a concession to the humbug of life, even in regard to the woman he loved—“I am going to Hereford, but shall return here for luncheon. Mrs. Devar’s illness is not likely to be lasting, and the view from the Yat is, if possible, better in the afternoon than in the morning. In addition to my obvious need of a clean collar, I believe that our presence in Hereford to-day is not desired. Why? I shall make it my business to find out. Yours ever sincerely——”
Then he reached a high and stout stone wall of difficulty. Was he to fall back on the subterfuge of “George Augustus Fitzroy,” which, of course, was his proper signature in law? He disliked this veil of concealment more and more each instant, but it was manifestly out of the question that he should sign himself “Medenham,” or “George,” while he had fought several pitched battles at Harrow with classmates who pined to label him “Augustus,” abbreviated. So, greatly daring, he wrote: “Mercury’s Guv’nor,” trusting to luck whether or not Cynthia’s classical lore would remind her that Mercury was the son of Jupiter.
He reread this effusion twice, and was satisfied with it as the herald of others. “My dear” sounded well; the intimacy of “our presence” was not overdone; while “yours ever sincerely” was excellent. He wondered if Cynthia would analyze it word for word in that fashion. Well, some day he might ask her. For the present he sealed the letter with a sigh and gave it to a waiter for safe delivery; he fancied, but could not be quite sure, that a good deal of unnecessary play with the motor’s Gabriel horn five minutes later brought a slender muslined figure to a window of the then distant hotel.
From Symon’s Yat to Hereford is about fifteen miles, and Medenham drew out of the narrow lane leading from the river to Whitchurch about a quarter-past nine. Thenceforth a straight and good road lay clear before him, and he meant to break the law as to speed limit by traveling at the fastest rate compatible with his own safety and that of other road-users. It was no disgrace to the Mercury car, therefore, when a dull report and a sudden effort of the steering-wheel to swerve to the right betokened the collapse of an inner tube on the off side. From the motorist’s point of view it was difficult to understand the cause of the mishap. The whole four tires were new so recently as the previous Monday, and Medenham was far too deeply absorbed in his own affairs to grasp the essential fact that Fate was still taking an intelligent interest in him.
Of course, he did not hurry over the work as though his life depended on it. Even when the cover was replaced and the tire pumped to the proper degree of air-pressure he lit a cigarette and had a look at the magneto before restarting the engine. Two small boys had appeared from space, and he amused himself by asking them to reckon how long it would take two men to mow a field of grass which one of the men could mow in three days and the other in four. He promised a reward of sixpence if the correct answer were forthcoming in a minute, and raised it to a shilling during the next minute. This stimulated their wits to suggest “a day and three-quarters” instead of the first frantic effort of “three days and a half.”
“No,” said he. “Think it over, ponder it with ardor, and if you have the right answer ready when I pass this way again about midday I’ll give you a shilling each.”