The Lady in the Car

A group of men near her were discussing him.

“Drummond is a magnificent driver,” one remarked in admiration. “Look at him coming up now. Cagno never drove like that, even in his very best race.”

“I wonder what interest he has in the Company? He surely wouldn’t race for the mere excitement,” remarked another.

“Interest!” cried a third man – and, truth to tell, he was Max Mason – “Why he has the option to buy up the whole of the concern, lock, stock, and barrel. I heard so yesterday. The company gave it to him a fortnight ago. Lawrence, the secretary, told me so. Why, by Jove! if he wins, the fortune of that make of car is secured. I suppose he has capital behind him, and will buy up the whole concern. I only wish I were in it. A tenth share would be a fortune.”

“You’re right,” remarked the first man. “Dick Drummond is a shrewd chap. If he wins he’ll make a pot of money on the deal – you see. It’ll be the biggest advertisement that a car has ever had in all the whole annals of motoring.”

Mrs Edmondson listened to all this in silence. She quite understood. The Prince, in his character of Dick Drummond, had entered into the affair with a view to a big financial deal – the purchase of the important company who were responsible for the car he was driving.

The car in question, be it said, was the actual mustard-coloured one in which she had careered about the West Riding, although she did not recognise it in its garb of dirty slate-grey.

She found it quite fascinating, standing there watching those two cars with their powerful roaring engines striving for the mastery, as mile after mile was covered at that frightful break-neck speed. Her heart was with the man bent over his wheel, whom every one believed to be a commoner, and whom she alone knew to be a prince.

And he, the cousin of the Kaiser, had actually squeezed her hand!

As the end of the race approached the excitement increased. The onlookers grouped themselves in little knots, watching critically for any sign of weakness in one or the other. But there was none. Carlier was as dogged as his opponent, and kept steadily on until at the eightieth mile he gradually overhauled the Englishman.

There were still twenty miles to cover. But Dick Drummond was behind, quite an eighth of a lap. Carlier had apparently been husbanding all his strength and power. The car he was driving was certainly a splendid one, and was behaving magnificently. Would it beat the English make?

As the last few laps were negotiated at a frightful speed the knots of onlookers became more and more enthusiastic. Some cheered Dick until they were hoarse, while others, with an interest in the car Carlier was driving, cried “Bravo! Bravo!”

The blood ran quickly in the widow’s veins. Ninety-five miles had been covered, and still Drummond was behind more than half a lap. She watched his crouching figure, with head set forward, his position never altering, his chin upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the track before him. Garrett seemed ever at work, touching this and that at the order of his master, whose face was wholly protected from the cutting wind by the ugly mask, save mouth and chin.

As the board showed ninety-seven miles he came at a fearful pace past the spot where Mrs Edmondson had again risen from her seat in her excitement. He was spurting, and so valiantly did he struggle, getting every ounce out of the hundred horse-power of his car, that he slowly, very slowly, crept towards the flying Frenchman.

“Keep on, Drummond!” shrieked the men, taking off their caps and waving them. “Don’t be beaten, old man!”

But he could not hear them above the terrible roar of his exhaust. No express train ever designed had run so quickly as he was now travelling. Official timekeepers were standing, chronometers in hand, calmly watching, and judges were making ready to declare the winner.

Every spectator stood breathless. It was really marvellous that one hundred miles could have been covered in that brief space of time while they had been watching.

Again, and yet again, the two cars flashed by, yet still Dick lagged behind.

Suddenly, however, they came round for the last lap, and as they passed the watchful widow, the Englishman like a shot from a gun, passed his opponent and won by twenty yards.

When he pulled up, after having run again round the course to slacken speed, he almost fell into the arms of the crowd of men who came up to congratulate him.

Mrs Edmondson had left her post of vantage and stood near by. She overheard one of them – it was Mason – say:

“By Jove, Dick! This is a wonderful run. You’ve broken the five, ten, and hundred mile records! The fortune of your car is made?”

Then the victor turned to his opponent and shook his hand, saying in French:

“Thank you, my dear Carlier, for a very excellent race.”

The widow, after a brief chat, returned to town by rail, while Garrett drove his master back to Dover Street.

That night his Highness dined with the widow at the Langham, and she bestowed upon him fulsome praise regarding his prowess.

“What make of car is yours?” she asked while they were lingering over their dessert in the widow’s private sitting-room.

“It’s the St. Christopher,” he answered.

“St. Christopher!” she echoed. “What a funny name to give a car!”

“It may appear so at first sight, but St. Christopher has been taken by motorists on the Continent as their patron saint – the saint who for ages has guarded the believer against the perils of the way. So it’s really appropriate, after all.”

“I heard them say that you’ve made the fortune of the car by your success to-day,” she remarked.

“Yes,” he answered carelessly. “Anybody who cared to put in a few thousands now would receive a magnificent return for their money – twenty-five per cent, within a year.”

“You think so?” she asked interestedly. “Think, Mrs Edmondson?” he echoed. “I’m sure of it! Why, the St. Christopher now holds the world’s record, and you know what that means. The makers will begin to receive far more orders than they can ever execute. Look at the Napier, the Itala, the Fiat, and others. The same thing has happened. The St. Christopher, however, is in the hands of two men only, and they, unfortunately, lack capital.”

“You should help them, if it’s such a good thing.”

“I’m doing so. Now I’ve won the race I shall put in fifteen thousand – perhaps twenty. They are seeing me to-morrow. As a matter of fact,” he added, lowering his tone, “I mean to hold controlling interest in the concern. It’s far too good a thing to miss.”

The fat widow, with her black bodice cut low, and the circle of diamonds sparkling upon her red neck, sipped her wine slowly, but said nothing.

His Highness did not refer to this matter again. He was a past-master of craft and cunning.

Later on, the Rev. Thomas Clayton was announced, and the trio spent quite a pleasant evening, which concluded by the lady inviting them both to Milnthorpe the following week.

At first the Prince again hesitated. The widow sat in breathless expectancy. At all hazards she must get his Highness to visit her. It would be known all over the county. She would pay a guinea each to the fashionable papers to announce the fact, for it would be worth so very much to her in the county.

“I fear, Mrs Edmondson, that I must go to Berlin next week,” replied the Prince. “I’m sure it’s very good of you, but the Emperor has summoned me regarding some affairs of my brother Karl.”

“Oh! why can’t you postpone your visit, and come and see me first?” she urged in her most persuasive style. “Mr Clayton, do urge the Prince to come to me,” she added.

“You can surely go to Germany a week later, Prince,” exclaimed the cleric. “Where’s the Kaiser just now?”

“At Kiel, yachting.”

“Then he may not be in Berlin next week?”

“He has appointed to meet me at Potsdam. His Majesty never breaks an engagement.”

“Then you will break yours, Prince, and go with me to Milnthorpe,” declared the Parson.

“Yes,” cried Mrs Edmondson; “and we will have no further excuses, will we, Mr Clayton?”

So his Highness was forced to accept, and next day the wily widow returned to Yorkshire to make preparations for the visit which was to shed such social lustre upon her house.

Three

The Prince and the Parson held several long interviews in the two days that followed, and it was apparent from one meeting which took place, and at which both Mason and Garrett were present, that some clever manoeuvre was intended. The quartette held solemn councils in the Prince’s chambers, and there was much discussion, and considerable laughter.