When the ladies reappeared from the interior of a roadside restaurant he was in his place, ready to start. He did not offer to put them in the car, adjust their wraps, and close the door. If Miss Vanrenen liked to keep her promise, that was her affair, but no action on his part would hint of prior knowledge that she intended to ride in front. Nevertheless, he could not repress a smile when he heard Mrs. Devar's distinctly chilly, "Oh, not at all!" in response to Cynthia's polite apology for deserting her until they neared Brighton. Somehow, the car underwent a subtle change when the girl took her seat by his side. From a machine quivering with life and power it became a triumphal chariot. By sheer perfection of mechanical energy it had bridged the gulf that lay between the millionaire's daughter and the hired man, since there could be no question that Cynthia Vanrenen placed Viscount Medenham in no other category. Indeed, his occasional lapses from the demeanor of a lower social grade might well have earned him her marked disfavor, and, as there was no shred of personal vanity in his character, he gave all the credit to the sentient creature of steel and iron that was so ready to respond to his touch. Swayed by an unconscious telepathy, the girl almost interpreted his unspoken thought. She watched his deft manipulation of levers and brakes, and fancied that his hands dwelt on the steering-wheel with a caress. "You have a real lovely automobile, Fitzroy," she said, "and I have a sort of notion that you are devoted to it. May I ask--is it your own car?" "Yes. I bought it six months ago. I learnt to drive in France, and, as soon as I heard of the new American engine, I--er--couldn't rest until I had tried it." He was on the point of saying something wholly different, but managed to twist the second half of the sentence in time. What would Miss Vanrenen have thought had he continued: "I sent my chauffeur to England, and, on receipt of his report, I had this car shipped within a week?" There are problems too deep for speculation when a man is guiding a ton of palpitating metal along a hedge-lined road at forty miles an hour. This was one. Cynthia, knowing nothing of any "new American engine," would die rather than confess her ignorance. Moreover, she was pondering a problem of her own. If it was not his master's car he might be open to a bargain. "Simmonds is an old friend of yours, I suppose?" she said. "Yes, I have known him some years. We were in South Africa together." "In the war, do you mean?" "Yes." "How dreadful! Have you ever killed anybody?" "Not with petrol, I am happy to state." There was an eloquent pause. Cynthia examined his reply, and discovered that it covered a good deal of ground. Perhaps, too, it conveyed the least little bit of a snub. Hence, her tone stiffened perceptibly.