The one person Medenham was really bitter against was Millicent Porthcawl. She had met Cynthia; she herself must have frowned at the lying innuendoes written from Bournemouth; it would give him some satisfaction to tell Cynthia that the Porthcawl ménage ought not to figure on her visiting list. But there! Cynthia was too generous-minded even to avenge her wrongs, though well able to deal with the Millicents and Mauds and Susans if they dared be spiteful.
Then the coming of Dale with various leather bags roused him from the reverie induced by his father’s curt missive, and he laughed at the discovery that he was fighting Cynthia’s battles already.
The Mercury was raising a good deal of dust in the neighborhood of Whitchurch when its occupants noticed a pair of urchins perched on a gate, signaling frantically. It pleased Medenham to mystify Dale, who was, if possible, more taciturn than ever since those heart-searching experiences at Gloucester and Hereford.
He pulled up some fifty yards or more down the road.
“You saw those boys?” he said.
“Yes, my lord, but they’re only having a game.”
“Nothing of the sort. Skip along and ask them if they have found out the answer. If they say ‘a day and five-sevenths,’ hand them a shilling each. Any other reply will be wrong. Don’t talk. Just run there and back, and pay only on a day and five-sevenths.”
Dale ran. Soon he was in his seat again.
“I gev’ ’em a bob each, my lord,” he announced, grave as an owl.
While they were running slowly down the winding lane that led to the Yat Medenham determined to make sure of his ground with reference to Mrs. Devar.