Cynthia, notwithstanding that spirited _pas seul_, was rather pale when Medenham stopped the car close beside her. She had been on tenterhooks during the past quarter of an hour--there were silent moments when she measured her own slim figure against the natty Count's in half-formed resolution to take to her heels along the Cheddar Road. At first, she had enjoyed the run greatly. Although Dale spoke of Smith as a mechanic, the man was a first-rate driver, and he spun the Du Vallon along at its best speed. But the change from good macadam to none soon made itself felt, and Cynthia was more troubled than she cared to show when the French flier came to a standstill after panting and jolting alarmingly among the ruts. Marigny's excited questions evoked only unintelligible grunts from Smith; for all that, the irritating truth could not be withheld--the petrol tank was empty; not only had the chauffeur forgotten to fill it that morning, but, by some strange mischance, the supply usually held in reserve had been left at Bristol! The Frenchman was very angry with Smith, and Smith was humbly apologetic. The pair must have acted convincingly, because each knew to a nicety how soon a gallon of petrol would vaporize in the Du Vallon's six cylinders. Having taken the precaution to measure that exact quantity into the tank before leaving Cheddar, they were prepared for a breakdown at any point within a few hundred yards of the precise locality where it occurred. Cynthia, being generous-minded, tried to make little of the mishap. By taking that line she strove to reassure herself. "Fitzroy is always prepared for emergencies," she said. "He will soon catch up with us. But what a road! I didn't really notice it before. Surely this cannot be the only highway between Bristol and Cheddar?--and in England, too, where the roads are so perfect!" "There are two roads, but this is the nearest one," explained the glib-tongued Count, seemingly much relieved by the prospect of Fitzroy's early arrival. "You don't deserve to be pulled out of a difficulty so promptly, Smith," he went on, eying the chauffeur sternly. "There's a village not very far ahead, sir," said the abashed Smith. "Oh, never mind! We must wait for Miss Vanrenen's car." "Wait?" inquired Cynthia. "What else can we do?" "I take it he meant to walk to some village, and bring a stock of spirit." "Oh, dear! I hope no such thing will be necessary." From that half hint of latent and highly disagreeable developments dated Cynthia's uneasiness. She accepted Marigny's suggestion that they should stroll to the top of the slight hill just descended, whence they would be able to watch their rescuer's approach from a considerable distance--she even remembered to tell him to smoke--but she answered his lively sallies at random, and agreed unreservedly with his voluble self-reproach.