THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume). Charles Norris Williamson

my horror, I even forgot my righteous anger with the chauffeur. "Oh!" I gasped. "The Turnours!"

      Then Mr. Dane spoke kindly again. "Don't worry," he said. "It's all right. They've gone on."

      "In the car?" I cried.

      "No. Sir Samuel can't drive the car. And as Lady Turnour thought she had a chill, rather than wait for me to find you they took a carriage which was here, and drove down to St. Remy. They'll go on by rail to Avignon, and—"

      "There must have been a dreadful row!" I groaned.

      "Not at all. You're not to worry. Lady Turnour behaved like a cad, as usual, but what can you expect? Sir Samuel did the best he could. He would have liked to wait, but if he'd insisted she would have had hysterics."

      "How came there to be a carriage here?" I asked the guide.

      "The gentleman paid three young men who had driven up in it a good sum to get it for himself," he explained, "and they are walking down. They are of Germany."

      "Was it a long time?" I went on. "Oh, it must have been. It's nearly dark now, except for the moonlight."

      "It is perhaps an hour altogether since mademoiselle separated herself from the others," the guide admitted. "But they have been gone for more than half that time. They did not delay long, after the little dispute with monsieur about the car."

      "Oh, there was a dispute!" I caught him up, wheeling upon the chauffeur. "You must tell me."

      "It was nothing much," he said, still very kindly, "and it was her ladyship's fault, of course. If you were plain and elderly she'd have more patience; but as it is, you've seen how quick she is to scold; so, of course, she was angry when she'd finished her grog and you didn't turn up."

      "What did she say," I asked.

      He laughed. "She was quite irrelevant."

      "I must know!"

      "Well, she seemed to lay most of the blame on the colour of your hair and eyelashes."

      "She said—"

      "What could be expected of a girl that dyed her hair yellow and her eyelashes black?"

      "Horrid woman! You don't believe I do, do you?"

      "I must say it hadn't occurred to me to think of it."

      Then I remembered how angry I was with him, and didn't pursue that subject, but turned again to the other. However, I made a mental note that there was one more thing to punish him for when I got the chance.

      "What else did she say?"

      "She began to turn purple when Sir Samuel would have defended you, and said she wouldn't stand your taking such liberties. That it was monstrous, and a few other things, to be kept freezing on mountains by one's domestics, and that she should be ill if she waited. Sir Samuel persuaded her to give you fifteen minutes' grace, but after that she was determined to start. Of course, she didn't know that an accident had happened. She thought you were simply dawdling, and wanted Sir Samuel to arrange for you to drive down with the newly arrived German tourists. Sir Samuel and I objected to this, and later it was settled for the Turnours to do what her ladyship planned for you, without the company of the tourists. Lady Turnour resents lèse-majesté."

      "It's a miracle she consented to leave the car," I said.

      "She couldn't use it without a chauffeur, and naturally I refused to go without knowing what had happened to you."

      "You refused!" I stammered.

      "Of course. That was where the row came in. We had a few words, and eventually I was deputed to look you up."

      "Deputed!" I echoed, desperately. "They never 'deputed' you to do it, I'm sure."

      "They jolly well couldn't help themselves. You can't make a man drive a car if he won't. So they went off in the Germans' carriage, and the Germans were enchanted."

      "Oh!" I exclaimed, so miserable now that anger leaked out of my heart like water through a sieve. "It's all my fault. Did they discharge you?"

      "I didn't give them the chance. After a few little things her ladyship said, I felt rather hot in the collar, and discharged myself. That is, I gave them notice that I would go as soon as they could get another chauffeur. It would have been bad form to leave them in the lurch, without anyone, on tour."

      The tears came to my eyes, and I was thinking so little about myself that I let them roll down without bothering to wipe them away. "Do, do forgive me," I implored. "But you never can, of course. All through my foolishness you're out of an engagement. And you depended upon it, I know, from what you said."

      "There's nothing to forgive, my dear little sister," he said. "It's you who must forgive me, if I've distressed you by telling the story in a clumsy way. It wasn't your fault. I couldn't stand that bounderess's cruel tongue, so I have myself to blame, if anyone. And it's sure to turn out right in the end."

      "You refused to drive their car because you would stay behind and find me—"

      "Any decent chap would do that—even a chauffeur." He spoke lightly to comfort me. "Besides, I wanted to stop. You're the only sister I ever had."

      "You must hate me," I moaned.

      "I don't. Please don't cry. I shall faint if you do."

      I was obliged to laugh a little through my tears.

      "Come," he said, gently. "Let me take you down. Just a word with the guide about those gipsies, and—"

      "Oh, leave the wretched gipsies alone!" I begged. "Who cares, now? If you say anything, they may call us as witnesses at St. Remy or some town where we don't want to stop. Let them go."

      "I suppose we might as well," he said, "for we can't prove anything worth proving. Come, then." He slipped some money into the guide's hand, and thanked him for his courtesy and kindness. But another pang shot through my remorseful heart. More money spent by this man for me, when he had so little, and had lost the engagement which, though unworthy his rank in life, was the only present means he had of earning a livelihood. I came, obeying in forlorn silence, and could not answer when he tried to cheer me up as we walked down to the Hotel Monte Carlo. There stood the Aigle in charge of a youth from the inn, and there was more money to be paid to him. I wanted to give it, but saw that if I insisted Mr. Dane would be vexed.

      He suggested putting me inside, as the air was now very cold, with the chill that falls after sunset; but I refused. "I want to sit by you!" I implored, and he said no more. With the glass cage behind us empty, and the great acetylene lamps alight, the Aigle turned and flew down the hill.

Chapter XVI

       Table of Contents

      For some time we did not speak, but my thoughts moved more quickly than the beating of the engine. At last I said meekly, "Of course, I may as well consider myself discharged, too. And even if I weren't, I should go."

      "I've been thinking about that," Mr. Dane answered. "It was the first thought that came into my head when the row began. It isn't likely she'll want you to leave, because she won't like getting on without a maid. I think, in the circumstances, unless she is brutal, you'd better stay with her till your friends can receive you. Someone must come forward and help you now."

      "I wouldn't ask anyone but Pamela, who's gone to America," I protested. "Besides, I can't stand Lady Turnour after what's happened—with you gone."

      (As I said this, I remembered again how I had dreaded to associate with the chauffeur, and planned to avoid him. It was rather funny, as it had turned out; but somehow I didn't feel like laughing.)

      "Of course you won't mind," I went on. "It's different for a man. If you were left and I going, it wouldn't matter, because you'd have the car. But