“Oh, you know him, do you?” cried the other. “No, he didn’t come with us. We left him at Bristol. He’s a bird, the captain. Played some johnny at billiards last night for a quid, and won. He told the guv’nor this morning that there is another game fixed for to-day, and you ought to have seen him wink. It’s long odds again’ the Bristol gent, or I’m very much mistaken. Yes, I’ll keep any amatoor paws off your car, and off my own as well, you bet.”
To pass from the stable yard to the garden it was not necessary to enter the hotel. A short path, shaded by trellis-laden creepers and climbing roses, led to a rustic bridge over the stream. When Medenham had gone halfway he saw the two women sitting with Marigny at a table placed well apart from other groups of tea-drinkers. They were talking animatedly, the Count smiling and profuse of gesture, while Cynthia listened with interest to what was seemingly a convincing statement of the fortunate hazard that led to his appearance at Cheddar. The Frenchman was too skilled a stalker of shy game to pretend a second time that the meeting was accidental.
Mrs. Devar’s shrill accents traveled clearly across the lawn.
“Just fancy that ... finding James at Bath, and persuading him to come to Bristol on the chance that we might all dine together to-night! Naughty boy he is—why didn’t he run out here in your car?”
Count Edouard said something.
“Business!” she cackled, “I am glad to hear of it. James is too much of a gad-about to earn money, but people are always asking him to their houses. He is a dear fellow. I am sure you will like him, Cynthia.”
Medenham had heard enough. He noted that the table was gay with cut flowers, and a neat waitress had evidently been detailed by the management to look after these distinguished guests; Marigny’s stage setting for his first decisive move was undoubtedly well contrived. It was delightfully pastoral—a charming bit of rural England—and, as such, eminently calculated to impress an American visitor.
Cynthia poured out a cup of tea, heaped a plate with cakes and bread and butter, and gave some instructions to the waitress. Medenham knew what that meant. He hurried back by the way he had come, and found that Marigny’s chauffeur had lifted the bonnet off the Mercury.
“More I see of this engine the more I like it—What’s your h.p.?” asked the man, who clearly regarded the Mercury’s driver as a brother in the craft.
“38.”