“Well, there is a bottle-holder,” said Medenham, thinking of Devar, “a short, fat fellow, an Englishman, but a most satisfactory subject for a drop kick.”
“Say when, my lord, an’ I’ll score a goal with him.”
Dale seemed to be speaking feelingly, but his master paid slight heed to him then. A girl in muslin, wearing a rather stylish hat—now, where did Cynthia get a hat?—had just sauntered to that end of the hotel’s veranda which gave a glimpse of the road.
“Make yourself comfortable in one of the cottages hereabouts,” was Medenham’s parting instruction to his man. “I don’t suppose the car will be needed again to-day, but you might refill the petrol tank—on the off chance.”
“Yes—my lord.”
Dale lifted his cap. The ostler who had helped in the cleaning of the car overnight was standing near the open doors of the coach-house. He might not have heard the words, but he certainly saw the respectful action. His eyes grew round, and his lips pursed to give vent to an imaginary whistle.
“I knew,” he told himself. “He’s a toff, that’s wot he is. Mum’s the word, Willyum. Say nothink, ’specially to wimmen!”
Bowing low before his smiling goddess, Medenham produced the packet of letters. It happened that the unstamped note for Mrs. Devar lay uppermost, and Cynthia guessed some part, at least, of its contents.
“Poor Monsieur Marigny!” she cried. “I fear he had a cheerless evening in Hereford. This is from him. I know his handwriting.... While father and I were in Paris he often sent invitations for fixtures at the Velo—once for a coach-drive to Fontainebleau. I was rather sorry I missed that.”