“Not a bit,” was the cheerful answer. “It is not I, but the car, that is out of commission. Didn’t you see me do the Salomé act when you were thrown on the screen?”
“Ah! the car has broken down. I do not wonder—this fearful road——”
“The road seems to have strayed out of Colorado, but that isn’t the trouble. We are short of petrol. Please give some to Monsieur Marigny, Fitzroy. Then we can hurry to Bristol, and the Count must pick up his chauffeur on the way.”
Without more ado, she seated herself by Mrs. Devar’s side, and Marigny realized that he had been robbed of a golden opportunity. No persuasion would bring Cynthia back into the Du Vallon that evening; it would need the exercise of all his subtle tact to induce her to re-enter it at any time in the near future.
He strove to appear at his ease, even essayed a few words of congratulation on the happy chance that brought the Mercury to their relief, but the imperious young lady cut short his limping phrases.
“Oh, don’t let us waste these precious minutes,” she protested. “It will be quite dark soon, and if there is much more of this wretched track——”
Medenham broke in at that. Mrs. Devar’s change of front had caused him some grim amusement, but the discovery of Marigny’s artifice roused his wrath again. It was high time that Cynthia should be enlightened, partly at least, as to the true nature of the “accident” that had befallen her; he had already solved the riddle of Smith’s disappearance.
“The road to Bristol lies behind you, Miss Vanrenen,” he said.
“One of the roads,” cried the Frenchman.
“No, the only road,” persisted Medenham. “We return to it some two miles in the rear. Had you followed your present path much farther you could not possibly have reached Bristol to-night.”