When the Mercury, shining from Dale's attentions, halted noiselessly opposite the College Green Hotel on the Saturday morning, Count Edouard Marigny was standing there; the Du Vallon was not in evidence, and its owner's attire bespoke other aims than motoring, at any rate for the hour. Evidently he was well content with himself. A straw hat was set on the back of his head, a cigarette stuck between his lips, his hands were thrust into his trousers pockets, and his feet were spread widely apart. Taken altogether, he had the air of a man without a care in the world. He smiled, too, in the most friendly fashion, when Medenham's eyes met his. "I hear that Simmonds is unable to carry out his contract," he said cheerfully. "You are mistaken, a second time, monsieur," said Medenham. "Why, then, are _you_ here this morning?" "I am acting for Simmonds. If anything, my car is slightly superior to his, while I may be regarded as an equally competent driver, so the contract is kept in all essentials." Marigny still smiled. The Frenchman of mid-Victorian romance would have shelved this point by indulging in "an inimitable shrug"; but nowadays Parisians of the Count's type do not shrug--with John Bull's clothing they have adopted no small share of his stolidness. "It is immaterial," he said. "I have sent my man to offer him my Du Vallon, and Smith will go with him to explain its humors. You, as a skilled motorist, understand that a car is of the feminine gender. Like any other charming demoiselle, it demands the exercise of tact--it yields willingly to gentle handling----" Medenham cut short the Count's neatly turned phrases. "Simmonds has no need to avail himself of your courtesy," he said. "As for the rest, give me your address in Paris, and when next I visit the French capital I shall be delighted to analyze these subtleties with you." "Ah, most admirable! But the really vital question before us to-day is your address in London, Mr. Fitzroy." Marigny dwelt on the surname as if it were a succulent oyster, and, in the undeniable surprise of the moment, Medenham was forced to believe that "Captain" Devar, formerly of Horton's Horse, had dared all by telling his confederate the truth, or some part of the truth. The two men looked squarely at each other, and Marigny did not fail to misinterpret the dubious frown on Medenham's face. He descended a step or two, and crossed the pavement leisurely, dropping his voice so that it might not reach the ears of a porter, laden with the ladies' traveling boxes, who appeared in the doorway.