“Slave,” he suggested, trying to wrench some spark of humor out of the iron in their souls.
“Don’t be stupid. I mean that you and I have met on an equality that I would deny to Simmonds or to any of the dozen chauffeurs we have employed in various parts of the world. And I want to warn you of this—knowing my father as well as I do—I am certain he has asked Mrs. Leland’s help for the undertaking that others have failed in. I—can’t say more. I——”
“Cynthia, dear! I have been looking for you everywhere,” cried a detested voice. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Fitzroy!” and Mrs. Devar bustled forward cheerfully. “You have been to Hereford, I hear. How kind and thoughtful of you! Were there any letters for me?”
“Sorry,” broke in Cynthia. “I was so absorbed in my own news that I forget yours. Here is your letter. It is only from Monsieur Marigny, to blow both of us up, I suppose, for leaving him desolate last night. But what do you think of my budget? My father is in London; Mrs. Leland, a friend of ours, joins us at Chester to-morrow; and Fitzroy deserts us at the same time.”
Mrs. Devar’s eyes bulged and her lower jaw fell a little. She could hardly have exhibited more significant tokens of alarm had each of Cynthia’s unwelcome statements been punctuated by the crash of artillery fired in the garden beneath.
During a long night and a weary morning she had labored hard at the building of a new castle in Spain, and now it was dissipated at a breath. Her sky had fallen; she was plunged into chaos; her brain reeled under these successive shocks.
“I—don’t understand,” she gasped, panting as if she had run across vast stretches of that vague “everywhere” during her quest of Cynthia.
“None of us understands. That is not the essence of the contract. Anyhow, father is in England, Mrs. Leland will be in Chester, and Fitzroy is for London. He is the only real hustler in the crowd. Unless my eyes deceived me, he brought his successor in the car from Hereford. Really, Mr. Fitzroy, don’t you think you ought to skate by the next train?”
“I prefer waiting till to-morrow evening if you will permit it,” he said humbly.
Cynthia was lashing herself into a very fair semblance of hot anger. She felt that she was trammeled in a net of deception, and, like the freedom-loving American that she was, she resented the toils none the less because their strands remained invisible. Seeing Medenham’s crestfallen aspect at her unjust charge with reference to Dale’s presence, she bit her lip with a laugh of annoyance and turned on Mrs. Devar.