Cynthia weakened a little at that. Certainly she wondered why her model chauffeur chose to express his opinions so bluntly, while Marigny’s unwillingness to take offense was admirable.
“Is there no better plan?” she asked quickly, for Medenham had started the engine, and his hand was on the reversing lever.
“For what?” he demanded.
“For extricating my friend from his difficulty?”
“If he likes to come with us, he can leave his car here all night, and return for it to-morrow.”
“Perhaps——”
“Please do not trouble yourself in the least on my account,” broke in the Count gayly. “As for abandoning my car, such a stupid notion would never enter my mind. No, no! I wait for Smith, but you may rely on my appearance in Bristol before you have finished dinner.”
Though it was no simple matter to back and turn the Mercury in that rough and narrow road, Medenham accomplished the maneuver with a skill that the Frenchman appreciated to the full. For the first time he noted the number when the tail-lamp revealed it.
“X L 4000,” he commented to himself. “I must inquire who the owner is. Devar or Smith will know where to apply for the information. And I must also ascertain that fellow’s history. Confound him, and my luck, too! If the Devar woman has any sense she will keep Cynthia well out of his way until the other chauffeur arrives.”
As it happened, the “Devar woman” was thinking the same thing at the same moment, but, being nervous, dared not attempt to utter her thoughts while the car was creeping cautiously over the ruts and stones. At last, when the highroad was reached, the pace quickened, and she regained the faculty of speech.