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, when next he picked it up, he became interested in an article on the Cape to Cairo railway, written by someone who had not the remotest notion of the difficulties to be surmounted before that very desirable line can be constructed.

Cynthia, however, was watching him, and she laughed gleefully.

“Ah, Fitzroy, you hadn’t heard of Vendetta before,” she cried. “Confess now—your faith in Tomkinson is shaken.”

“Vendetta certainly does sound like war to the knife,” said he.

“It is twenty to one,” purred Mrs. Devar complacently. “I shall risk the five pounds I won on the first race, and it will be very nice if I receive a hundred.”

“I stick to Old Glory,” announced the valiant Cynthia.

“The King for me,” declared Medenham, though he realized, without any knowledge of the merits of the horses engaged, that the Honorable Charles was not the sort of man to run a three-year-old in the Derby merely for the sake of seeing his racing colors flashing in the sun.

Mrs. Devar kept to her word, and handed over the five pounds. Cynthia staked seven, the five she had won and the ten dollars of her original intent: whereupon Medenham said that he must cross the course and make these bets in the ring—would the ladies raise any objection to his absence, as he could not return until after the race? No, they were quite content to remain in the car, so he repacked the luncheon basket and left them.

Vendetta won by three lengths.

Medenham had secured twenty-five to one, and the bookmaker who paid him added the genial advice: “Put that little lot where the flies can’t get at it.” The man could afford to be affable, seeing that the bet was the only one in his book against the horse’s name. The King’s horse and Grimalkin were the public favorites, but both were hopelessly shut in at Tattenham Corner, and neither showed in the front rank at any stage of a fast run race. When Medenham climbed the hill again, hot and uncomfortable in his leather clothing, Mrs. Devar actually welcomed him with an expansive smile.

“What odds did you get me?” she cried, as soon as he was within earshot.

“A hundred and twenty-five pounds to five, madam,” he said.

“Oh, what luck! You must keep the odd five pounds, Fitzroy.”

“No, thank you. I hedged on Vendetta, so I am still winning.”

“But really, I insist.”

He handed her a bundle of notes.

“You will find a hundred and thirty pounds there,” he said, and she understood that his refusal to accept her money was final. She was intensely surprised that he had given her so much more than she expected, and the first unworthy thought was succeeded by a second—how dared this impudent chauffeur decline her bounty?

Cynthia pouted at him.

“Your Tomkinson is a fraud,” she said.

“Your Grimalkin was well named,” said he.

“That remark is very cutting, I suppose, Fitzroy.”

“Oh, no. I merely meant to convey that a cat is not a racehorse.”

“Poor fellow,” mused Cynthia, “he is vexed because he lost. I must make it up to him somehow, but he is such an extraordinary person, I hardly dare suggest such a thing.”

She began to adjust her veil and dust coat.

“If you are ready, Mrs. Devar,” she said, “I think we ought to hit the pike for Brighton.”

Mrs. Devar laughed. Fitzroy evidently understood, as he had taken his seat and the engine was humming.

“Americanisms are most fascinating,” she vowed. “I wish you would use more of them, Cynthia. I love them.”

Cynthia was slightly ruffled, though if pressed for a reason she could hardly have given one.

“Slang is useful occasionally, but I am trying to cure myself of the habit,” she said tartly.

“A picturesque phrase is always pardonable. Oh, is this quite safe?——”

The Mercury, finding an opening, had shot down the hill with a smooth celerity that alarmed the older woman. Cynthia leaned back composedly.

“Fitzroy means to reach the road before the police stop the traffic for the next race,” she said. Then, after a pause, she added: “I wish we could keep this car for the rest of our tour, yet I suppose I ought not to interfere in the arrangement father made with Simmonds.”

Mrs. Devar frowned. Her momentary tremor had fled, and she had every cause to regard with uneasiness the threatened substitution during the forthcoming ten days, of this quite impossible Fitzroy for that very chauffeur-like person, Simmonds. Her acquaintance with Peter Vanrenen and his daughter was sufficiently intimate to warn her that Cynthia’s least desire was granted by her indulgent parent; in fact, Cynthia would have been hopelessly spoilt were it not for a combination of those happy chances which seem to conspire at times in the creation of the American girl at her best. She was devoted to her father, her nature was bright and cheerful, and she had a heart that bubbled over with kindliness. Mrs. Devar chose the right line of attack. She resolved to appeal to the girl’s sympathies.

“I am afraid it would be a rather cruel thing to deprive Simmonds of his engagement,” she said softly. “He has bought a car, I understand, on the strength of the contract with Mr. Vanrenen——”

“That doesn’t cut any ice—I mean there would be no ill effect for Simmonds,” explained Cynthia hurriedly. “Father will meet us in London at the end of our run, and Simmonds could come to us then.”

The steel-gray eyes narrowed. Their owner was compelled to decide quickly. As opposition was useless, she laughed, with the careless ease of one who was in no way