As it happened, the "Devar woman" was thinking the same thing at the same moment, but, being nervous, dared not attempt to utter her thoughts while the car was creeping cautiously over the ruts and stones. At last, when the highroad was reached, the pace quickened, and she regained the faculty of speech. "We have had a quite eventful day," she said with an air of motherly solicitude, turning to the distrait girl by her side. "I am sure you are tired. What between an extra amount of sightseeing and poor Count Edouard's unfortunate mistake, we have been in the car nearly twelve hours." "How did Fitzroy discover that we had taken the wrong road?" asked Cynthia, rousing herself from a perplexed reverie. "Well, he drove very fast from Cheddar, much too fast, to my thinking, though the risk has been more than justified by circumstances. Of course, it is always easy to be wise after the event. At any rate, there being no sign of your car when we reached the top of a long hill, we--er--we discussed matters, and decided to explore the byroad." "Did you remain long in Cheddar? If Fitzroy hit up the pace, why were you so far behind?" "I waited a few minutes to address some postcards. And that reminds me--Fitzroy sent a most impertinent message by one of the servants----" "Impertinent!" "My dear, there is no other word for it--something about going off without me if I did not start instantly. Really, I shall be glad when Simmonds takes his place. But there! We must not renew our Bournemouth argument." "And he caused a servant in the hotel to speak to you in that manner?" "Yes--the very girl who waited on us at tea--a pert creature, who seemed to find the task congenial." Mrs. Devar was building better than she knew. Cynthia laughed, though not with the whole-souled merriment that was music in Medenham's ears. "She has been properly punished; I forgot to tip her," she explained. "Count Edouard would see to that----" "He didn't. I noticed what he paid--out of sheer curiosity. Perhaps I ought to send her something." "My dear Cynthia!" But dear Cynthia was making believe to be quite amused by a notion that had just suggested itself. She leaned forward in the darkness and touched Medenham's shoulder. "Do you happen to know the name of the waitress who brought you some tea at Cheddar?" she asked. "None of us gave her anything, and I hate to omit these small items. If I had her name I could forward a postal order from Bristol." "There is no need, Miss Vanrenen," said Medenham. "I handed her--well, sufficient to clear all claims." "_You_ did? But why?" The temptation to explain that he had never seen the girl before that day was strong, but he waived it, and contented himself with saying: "I--er--can't exactly say--force of habit, I imagine." "Is she a friend of yours?" "No." Cynthia subsided into the tonneau.