"Oh, _he's_ all right. If George has any dispute with him I'll settle it in a minute. He is as straight as they make 'em--bought two of my prize bulls three years ago for his ranch in Montana. By the way, someone told me the other day that he has a very pretty daughter--'a real peach' the man said. Wonder if George has seen her? Begad, he might go farther and fare worse. We effete aristocrats can do with a strain of new blood occasionally, eh, what?" "'Vanrenen' sounds like a blend of old Dutch and New England," said Sir Ashley Stoke, who was sane on all subjects save one, his pet mania being the decay of England since the passing of the Victorian age. The Earl helped himself to a whisky and soda. His egotism was severely shaken. Who would have thought that a pillar of the state like Scarland would approve of this Vanrenen girl as a match for George, even in jest? But he had the good sense to steer clear of explanations. When he found his voice it was to swear at the quality of the whisky. Medenham, meanwhile, had rushed into the hall. He expected to find Dale there, but saw no one except the suave footman on duty. The man opened the door. "Dale is outside, in the car, my lord," he said. "In the car!" That meant the bursting of a meteor in a blue sky. Sure enough, there stood the Mercury, dusty and panting, but seemingly gathering breath for another mighty effort if necessary. "Come in!" shouted Medenham, on whom the first strong shadow of impending disaster had fallen as soon as he heard those ill-omened words "in the car." Dale scrambled to the pavement and walked stiffly up the steps, being weary after an almost unbroken run of one hundred and eighty miles. He nodded to the Mercury, and the footman rang for a pageboy to mount guard. Medenham led the way into a small anteroom and switched on the light. "Now," he said. "Mr. Vanrenen kem to Chester last night in Simmond's car, my lord. This mornin' he sent for me an' sez 'who are you?' 'The chauffeur, sir,' sez I. 'Whose chauffeur?' sez he. 'Yours for the time,' sez I, bein' sort of ready for him. 'Well, you can get,' sez he. 'Get what?' sez I. 'Get out,' sez he. Of course, my lord, I knew well enough what he meant, but I wanted to have it straight, an' I got it." Dale's style of speech was elliptical, though he might have been surprised if told so. For once, Medenham wished he was a loquacious man. "Was nothing else said?" he asked. "No message from--anyone? No reason given? What brought Simmonds to Chester?" "Mr. Vanrenen picked him up in Bristol at 4 a.m. yesterday, my lord. Simmonds made out that that there Frenchman, Monsieur Marinny" (Dale prided himself on a smattering of French), "had pitched a fine ole tale about you. In fact, the bearings got so hot at Symon's Yat that Simmonds chucked his job till Mr. Vanrenen sort of apologized." "Can you be specific, Dale? You are hard to follow."