Cynthia's Chauffeur

Viscount Medenham descended leisurely and lit a cigarette. Dale, the stoic, folded his arms and looked fixedly at the press of vehicles passing the end of the street. Vivid memories of Lord Medenham's chivalrous courtesy--his lordship's dashed tomfoolery he called it--warned him that life was about to assume new interests.

The boy messenger, summoned telephonically by a sympathetic maid-servant in a neighboring house, guessed that the gentleman standing on the pavement owned the "motor-car" to which he had been directed. Here were two cars, but the boy did not hesitate. He saluted.

"Messenger, sir," he said.

"This way," intervened Simmonds curtly.

"No. I want you," said Medenham. "You know Sevastopolo's, the cigarette shop in Bond Street?"

"Yes, sir."

"Take this card there, and ask him to dispatch the order at once." Meanwhile he was writing: "Kindly send 1,000 Salonikas to 91 Cavendish Square."

Simm