Cynthia's Chauffeur. Tracy Louis
July. But what a bore to tumble across Jimmy’s mater! I hope it is not a case of ‘like mother like son,’ because Jimmy is the limit.”
A strange roar, gathering force and volume each instant, rose from a hundred thousand throats. Soon the shout became insistent, and Cynthia Vanrenen yielded to its magnetism.
“Eyot wins!” she cried delightedly. “Yes, none of them can catch him now. Go on, jockey – don’t look round! Oh, if I were your master I’d give you such a talking to. Ah-h-h! We’ve won, Mrs. Devar – we’ve won! Just think of it!”
“How much, I wonder?” Mrs. Devar, though excited, had the calculating habit.
“Five pounds each,” said Medenham, who had approached unnoticed during the tumult.
Cynthia’s eyes sparkled.
“Five pounds! Why, I heard some betting person over there offering only three to one.”
It was a task beyond his powers to curb an unruly tongue in the presence of this emancipated schoolgirl. He met her ebullient mood halfway.
“I have evidently beaten the market – that is, if I get the money. Horrible thought! I may be welshed!”
He strode back rapidly to the bookmaker’s stand.
“What do you think of our chauffeur now?” cried Cynthia radiantly, for the winning of those few sovereigns was a real joy to her, and the shadow of the welsher had no terrors, since she did not know what Medenham meant.
“He improves on acquaintance,” admitted Mrs. Devar, thawing a little under the influence of a successful tip.
He soon returned, and handed them six sovereigns apiece.
“My man paid up like a Briton,” he said cheerfully. “I have no reliable information as to the next race, so what do you ladies say if we lunch quietly before we attack the ring for the Derby?”
There was an awkward pause. The air of Epsom Downs is stimulating, especially after one has found the winner of the first race.
“We have not brought anything to eat,” admitted Cynthia ruefully. “We ordered some sandwiches before leaving the hotel, and we mean to stop for tea at some old-world hotel in Reigate which Mrs. Devar recommends.”
“Unfortunately I was not hungry at sandwich time,” sighed Mrs. Devar.
“If it comes to that, neither was I, whereas I have a most unromantic appetite now. But what can do, as the Babus say in India. I am rather inclined to doubt the quality of anything we can buy here.”
Medenham’s face lit up.
“India!” he cried. “Have you been to India?”
“Yes, have you? My father and I passed last cold weather there.”
Warned by a sudden expansion of Mrs. Devar’s prominent eyes, he gave a quick turn to a dangerous topic, since it was in Calcutta that the gallant ex-captain of Horton’s Horse had “borrowed” fifty pounds from him. Naturally, the lady omitted the telltale prefix to her son’s rank, but it was unquestionably true that the British army had dispensed with his services.
“I was only thinking that acquaintance with the East, Miss Vanrenen, would prepare you for the mysterious workings of Kismet,” said Medenham lightly. “When I came across Simmonds this morning I was bewailing the fact that my respected aunt had fallen ill and could not accompany me to-day. May I offer you the luncheon which I provided for her?”
He withdrew the wicker basket from its nook beneath the front seat; before his astonished guests could utter a protest, it was opened, and he was deftly unpacking the contents.
“But that is your luncheon,” protested Cynthia, finding it incumbent on her to say something by way of polite refusal.
“And his aunt’s, my dear.”
In those few words Mrs. Devar conveyed skepticism as to the aunt and ready acceptance of the proffered fare; but Medenham paid no heed; he had discovered that the napkins, cutlery, even the plates, bore the family crest. The silver, too, was of a quality that could not fail to evoke comment.
“Well, here goes!” he growled under his breath. “If I come a purler it will not be for the first time where women are concerned.”
He laughed as he produced some lobster in aspic and a chicken.
“It is jolly useful to have as a friend a butler in a big house,” he said. “I didn’t know what Tomkinson had given me, but these confections look all right.”
Mrs. Devar’s glance dwelt on the crest the instant she took a plate. She smiled in her superior way. While Medenham was wrestling with the cork of a bottle of claret she whispered:
“This is screamingly funny, Cynthia. I have solved the riddle at last. Our chauffeur is using his master’s car and his master’s eatables as well.”
“Don’t care a cent,” said Cynthia, who found the lobster admirable.
“But if any inquiry is made and our names are mixed up in it, Mr. Vanrenen may be angry.”
“Father would be tickled to death. I shall insist on paying for everything, of course, and my responsibility ends there. No, thank you – ” this to Medenham who was offering her a glass of wine. “I drink water only. Have you any?”
Mrs. Devar took the wine, and Medenham fished in the basket for the St. Galmier, since Lady St. Maur cultivated gout with her biliousness.
“Dear me!” she murmured after a sip.
“What is it now?” asked Cynthia.
“Perfect, my dear. Such a bouquet! I wonder what house it came from,” and she pondered the crest again, but in vain, for heraldry is an exact science, and the greater part of her education had been given by a hard world. She did not fail, therefore, to notice that three persons were catered for by the packer of the basket. An unknown upper housemaid was already suspect, and now she added mentally “some shop-girl friend.” The climax was reached when Medenham staged the strawberries. Cynthia, to whom the good things of the table were commonplaces, ate them and was thankful, but Mrs. Devar made another note: “Ten shillings a basket, at the very least; and three baskets!”
A deep, booming yell from the mob proclaimed that the second race was in progress.
“I can’t see a thing unless I am perched on the seat, and if I stand up I shall upset the crockery,” announced Cynthia. “But I am not interested yet awhile. If Grimalkin wins I shall shout myself hoarse.”
“He hasn’t a ghost of a chance,” said Medenham.
“Oh, but he has. Mr. Deane told my father – ”
“But Tomkinson told me,” he interrupted.
“Tomkinson. Is that your butler friend?”
“Yes. He says the King’s horse will win.”
“Surely the owner of Grimalkin must know more about the race than a butler?”
“You would not think so, Miss Vanrenen, if you knew Tomkinson.”
“Where is he butler?” asked Mrs. Devar suavely.
“I forget for the moment, madam,” replied Medenham with equal suavity.
The lady waived the retort. She was sure of her ground now.
“In any case, I imagine that both Mr. Deane and this Tomkinson may be mistaken. I am told that a horse trained locally has a splendid chance – let me see – yes, here it is: the Honorable Charles Fenton’s Vendetta.”
It was well that those bulging steel-gray eyes were bent over the card, or they could not have failed to catch the flicker of amazement that swept across Medenham’s sun-browned face when he heard the name of his cousin. He had not been in England a full week as yet, and he happened not to have read a list of probable starters for the Derby. He had glanced at the programme during breakfast that morning, but some remark made by the Earl caused him to lay down the newspaper, and,