“So it would seem.” She turned her back on him disdainfully. “In the circumstances, Cynthia,” she said, “I am inclined to believe that we ought to make further inquiries before we exchange cars, and drivers, in this fashion.”
“But what is to be done? All our arrangements are made—our rooms ordered—I have even sent father each day’s address. If we cancel everything by telegraph he will be alarmed.”
“Oh, I did not mean that,” protested the lady hurriedly. It was evident that she hardly knew what to say. Medenham’s wholly unexpected query had unnerved her.
“Is there any alternative?” demanded Cynthia ruefully, glancing from one to the other.
“It is rather late to hire another car to-day, I admit——” began Mrs. Devar.
“It would be quite impossible, madam,” put in Medenham. “This is Derby Day, and there is not a motor to be obtained in London except a taxicab. It was sheer good luck for Simmonds that he was able to secure me as his deputy.”
He thanked his stars for that word “madam.” Certainly the mere sound of it seemed to soothe Mrs. Devar’s jarred nerves, and the appearance of the Mercury was even more reassuring.
“Ah, well,” she said, “we are not traveling into the wilds. If desirable, we can always return to town by train. By the way, chauffeur, what is your name?”
For an instant Medenham hesitated. Then he took the plunge, strong in the belief that a half-forgotten transaction between himself and “Jimmy” Devar would prevent that impecunious warrior from discussing him freely in the family circle.
“George Augustus Fitzroy,” he said.