Cynthia's Chauffeur. Tracy Louis

motion.

      “Everything!”

      The chauffeur snapped out the word without turning. He was a man devoid of faith, or hope, or charity.

      “Can I help?”

      “Can you h – l!” came the surly response.

      Thereupon, many viscounts would have swept on into Piccadilly without further parley – not so Medenham. He scrutinized the soldierly figure, the half-averted face.

      “You must be hard hit, Simmonds, before you would answer me in that fashion,” said he quietly.

      Simmonds positively jumped when he heard his name. He wheeled round, raised his cap, and broke into stuttering excuse.

      “I beg your lordship’s pardon – I hadn’t the least notion – ”

      These two had not met since they discussed Boer trenches and British generals during a momentary halt on the Tugela slope of Spion Kop. Medenham remembered the fact, and forgave a good deal on account of it.

      “I have seen you look far less worried under a plunging fire from a pom-pom,” he said cheerily. “Now, what is it? Wires out of order?”

      “No, my lord. That wouldn’t bother me very long. It’s a regular smash this time – transmission shaft snapped.”

      “Why?”

      “I was run into by a railway van, and forced against a street refuge.”

      “Well, if it was not your fault – ”

      “Oh, I can claim damages right enough. I have plenty of witnesses. Even the driver of the van could only say that one of his horses slipped. It’s the delay I’m jibbing at. I hate to disappoint my customers, and this accident may cost me three hundred pounds, and a business of my own into the bargain.”

      “By gad! That sounds rather stiff. What’s the hurry?”

      “This is my own car, my lord. Early in the spring I was lucky enough to fall in with a rich American. I was driving for a company then, but he offered me three hundred pounds, money down, for a three months’ contract. Straightaway I bought this car for five hundred, and it is half paid for. Now the same gentleman writes from Paris that I am to take his daughter and another lady on a thousand miles’ run for ten days, and he says he is prepared to hire me and the car for the balance of another period of three months on the same terms.”

      “But the ladies will be reasonable when you explain matters.”

      “Ladies are never reasonable, my lord – especially young ones. I have met Miss Vanrenen only once, but she struck me as one who was very much accustomed to having her own way. And she has planned this tour to the last minute. Any other day I might have hired a car, and picked up my own somewhere on the road, but on Derby Day and in fine weather – ”

      Simmonds spread wide his hands in sheer inability to find words that would express the hopelessness of retrieving his shattered fortunes. Dale was fidgeting, fingering taps and screws unnecessarily, but Medenham was pondering his former trooper’s plight. He refused to admit that the position was quite so bad as it was painted.

      “Oh, come now,” said he, “I’ll give you a tow to the nearest repair shop, and a word from me will expedite the business. Meanwhile, you must jump into a hansom and appeal to the sympathies of Miss – Vanrenen, is it?”

      “No use, my lord,” was the stubborn answer. “I am very much obliged to you, but I would not dream of detaining you.”

      “Simmonds, you are positively cantankerous. I can spare the time.”

      “The first race is at 1.30, my lord,” muttered Dale, greatly daring.

      Medenham laughed.

      “You, too?” he cried. “Someone has given you a tip, I suppose?”

      Dale flushed under this direct analysis of his feelings. He grinned sheepishly.

      “I am told that Eyot can’t lose the first race, my lord,” he said.

      “Ah! And how much do you mean to speculate?”

      “A sovereign, my lord.”

      “Hand it over. I will lay you starting price.”

      Somewhat taken aback, though nothing said or done by Viscount Medenham could really surprise him, Dale’s leather garments creaked and groaned while he produced the coin, which his master duly pocketed.

      “Now, Simmonds,” went on the pleasant, lazy voice, “you see how I have comforted Dale by taking his money; won’t you tell me what is the real obstacle that blocks the way? Are you afraid to face this imperious young lady?”

      “No, my lord. No man can provide against an accident of this sort. But Miss Vanrenen will lose all confidence in me. The arrangement was that to-day’s spin should be a short one – to Brighton. I was to take the ladies to Epsom in time for the Derby, and then we were to run quietly to the Metropole. Miss Vanrenen made such a point of seeing the race that she will be horribly disappointed. There is an American horse entered – ”

      “By gad, another gambler!”

      Simmonds laughed grimly.

      “I don’t think Miss Vanrenen knows much about racing, my lord, but the owner of Grimalkin is a friend of her father’s, and he is confident about winning this year.”

      “I am beginning to understand. You are in a fix of sorts, Simmonds.”

      “Yes, my lord.”

      “And what is your plan? I suppose you have one.”

      “I have sent for a boy messenger, my lord. When he arrives I shall write – Oh, here he is.”

      Viscount Medenham descended leisurely and lit a cigarette. Dale, the stoic, folded his arms and looked fixedly at the press of vehicles passing the end of the street. Vivid memories of Lord Medenham’s chivalrous courtesy – his lordship’s dashed tomfoolery he called it – warned him that life was about to assume new interests.

      The boy messenger, summoned telephonically by a sympathetic maid-servant in a neighboring house, guessed that the gentleman standing on the pavement owned the “motor-car” to which he had been directed. Here were two cars, but the boy did not hesitate. He saluted.

      “Messenger, sir,” he said.

      “This way,” intervened Simmonds curtly.

      “No. I want you,” said Medenham. “You know Sevastopolo’s, the cigarette shop in Bond Street?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Take this card there, and ask him to dispatch the order at once.” Meanwhile he was writing: “Kindly send 1,000 Salonikas to 91 Cavendish Square.”

      Simmonds looked anxious. He was not a smooth-spoken fellow, but he did not wish to offend Lord Medenham.

      “Would your lordship mind if I sent the boy to the Savoy Hotel first?” he asked nervously. “It is rather late, and Miss Vanrenen will be expecting me.”

      “What time are you due at the Savoy?”

      “We were to start at twelve o’clock, but the ladies’ luggage had to be strapped on, and – ”

      “Ah, the deuce! That sounds formidable.”

      “Of course they must stow everything into the canvas trunks I supplied, my lord.”

      Medenham stooped and examined the screws which fastened an iron grid at the back of the broken-down vehicle.

      “Whip open the tool box, Dale, and transfer that arrangement to my car,” he said briskly. “Make it fit somehow. I don’t approve of damaged paintwork, nor of weight behind the driving-wheels for that matter, but time presses, and the ladies might shy at a request to repack their belongings into my kit-bags, even if I were carrying them. Now, Simmonds, give me the route, if you know it, and hand over your road maps. I mean to take your place until your car is put right. Wire me where to expect you. You ought to be ship-shape in three