The pause was eloquent: Cynthia had heard.
“Thank you, Miss Vanrenen,” he said, affecting to glance at his watch.
He felt thoroughly nonplussed. She would surely think he had been flirting with this rosy-cheeked servant, and he might never have an opportunity of telling her that his sole reason for encouraging the conversation lay in his anxiety to learn as much as possible about Marigny and his associates.
“My, ain’t she smart!” said the girl when Cynthia had gone.
Medenham put his hand in his pocket and gave her half-a-crown.
“They have forgotten to tip you, Gertie,” he said. Without heeding a stare of astonishment strongly tinctured with indignation, he stooped in unnecessary scrutiny of the Mercury’s tires. The minx tossed her head.
“Some folks are as grand as their missuses,” she remarked, and went back to her garden.
But Smith looked puzzled. Medenham, no good actor at any time, had dropped too quickly the air of camaraderie which had been a successful passport hitherto. His voice, his manner, the courtly insolence of the maid’s dismissal, evoked vague memories in Smith’s mind. The square-shouldered, soldierly figure did not quite fit into the picture, but he seemed to hear that same authoritative voice speaking to Dale in the Brighton garage.
“You may occupy your time in any way you wish, Fitzroy,” said Cynthia.
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