“More mischief!” he muttered. “Dale is George’s chauffeur. I suppose he is mixed up in this Vanrenen muddle again.”
“What muddle is that?” asked Scarland. “Is George in it?—that would be unusual.”
Fairholme suddenly bethought himself.
“Something to do with a motor,” he said vaguely. “The Vanrenens are Americans, friends of Mrs. Leland’s. You remember her, Arthur, don’t you?”
“Perfectly. Is ‘Vanrenen’ the Peter of that ilk?”
“I think so. Yes—that is the name—Peter Vanrenen.”
“Oh, he’s all right. If George has any dispute with him I’ll settle it in a minute. He is as straight as they make ’em—bought two of my prize bulls three years ago for his ranch in Montana. By the way, someone told me the other day that he has a very pretty daughter—‘a real peach’ the man said. Wonder if George has seen her? Begad, he might go farther and fare worse. We effete aristocrats can do with a strain of new blood occasionally, eh, what?”
“‘Vanrenen’ sounds like a blend of old Dutch and New England,” said Sir Ashley Stoke, who was sane on all subjects save one, his pet mania being the decay of England since the passing of the Victorian age.
The Earl helped himself to a whisky and soda. His egotism was severely shaken. Who would have thought that a pillar of the state like Scarland would approve of this Vanrenen girl as a match for George, even in jest? But he had the good sense to steer clear of explanations. When he found his voice it was to swear at the quality of the whisky.
Medenham, meanwhile, had rushed into the hall. He expected to find Dale there, but saw no one except the suave footman on duty. The man opened the door.