The Mercury crossed Oxford Street and insinuated itself into the aristocratic narrowness of Mayfair. It stopped in Curzon Street, opposite a house gay with flowers in window-boxes. The Viscount looked at his watch. "How far to Epsom?" he asked over Dale's shoulder. "About sixteen miles by the direct road, my lord, but it will be best to go round by Kingston and avoid the worst of the traffic. We ought to allow an hour for the run." "An hour!" "We are not in France now, my lord. The police here would have spasms if they saw the car extended." Lord Medenham sighed. "We must reason with them," he said. "But not to-day. Lady St. Maur declares she is nervous. Of course, she doesn't know our Mercury. After to-day's experience it will be quite another matter when I take her to Brighton for lunch on Sunday." Dale said nothing. He had met his employer at Marseilles in October, when Lord Medenham landed from Africa; during the preceding twelve months his license had been indorsed three times for exceeding the speed limit on the Brighton Road, and he had paid L40 in fines and costs to various petty sessional courts in Surrey and Sussex. Sunday, therefore, promised developments. Medenham seemed to think that his aunt, Lady St. Maur, would be waiting for him on the doorstep. As no matronly figure materialized in that locality, he alighted, and obeyed a brass-lettered injunction to "knock and ring." Then he disappeared inside the house, and remained there so long that Dale's respect for the law began to weaken. The chauffeur had been given a racing certainty for the first race; the hour was nearing twelve, and every road leading to Epsom Downs would surely be congested. His lordship came out, alone, and it was clear that the unexpected had happened. "Nice thing!" he said, with the closest semblance to a growl that his good-natured drawl was capable of. "The whole show is busted, Dale. Her ladyship is in bed with her annual bilious attack--comes of eating forced strawberries, she says. And she adores strawberries. So do I. There's pounds of 'em in that luncheon basket. Who's going to eat 'em?" Dale foresaw no difficulties in that respect, but he did realize at once that his master cared little about racing, and, so far as Epsom was concerned, would abandon the day's excursion without a pang. He grew desperate. But, being something of a stoic, he kept his feelings in check, and played a card that could hardly fail. "You will find plenty of youngsters on the hill who will be glad of them, my lord," said he. "You don't tell me so! Kiddies at the Derby! Well, why not? It shows what a stranger I am in my own land that I should never have seen the blessed race. Right ahead then, Dale; we must back the King's horse and arrange a school treat. But I'll take the wheel. Can you tuck your legs over that basket? I'm not going to sit alone in the tonneau. And, who knows?--we may pick up someone on the road."