"Well, the poodle likes him, anyway," protested Mr. Rodney, who liked Brock; "and if a dog likes a man he's not altogether a bad lot. If I were you, I wouldn't spread the report."

"Spread it!" she sniffed indignantly. "Are they not my own cousins? Twice removed," she concluded as an after-thought. "Do you imagine that I would spread it? He may be an unnatural father, but I shall not be the one to say so. Please bear that in mind, Alfred."

"Well, let's not argue about it," said Mr. Rodney, departing before she could disobey the injunction.

Of course, there was no little confusion at the Hotel Tyrol when it came to establishing the Medcrofts. For a while it looked as though Brock would have to share a room with Tootles, relegating Burton to an alcove and a couch; but Constance, in a strictly family conclave, was seized by an inspiration which saved the day—or the night, more properly speaking.

"I have it, Roxbury," she cried, her eyes dancing. "You can sleep on the balcony. A great many invalids do, you know."

"But, good heaven, I'm not an invalid," he remonstrated feebly.

"Of course, you're not, but can't you say you are? It's quite simple. You sleep in the open air because it does your lungs so much good. Oh, I know! It isn't necessary to expand your chest like that. They're perfectly sound, I daresay. I should think you'd rather enjoy the fresh air. Besides, there isn't a room to be had in the hotel."

"But suppose it should rain!" he protested, knowing full well he was doomed.

"You poor boy, haven't you an umbrella?" she cried with such a perfectly entrancing laugh that he would have slept out in a hailstorm to provide recompense. And so it was settled that he was to sleep in the small balcony just off the baby's luxurious room, the hotel people agreeing to place a cot there at night in order to oblige the unfortunate guest with the affected lung.

"You are so dear and so agreeable, Roxbury," purred Mrs. Medcroft, very much relieved. "If ever I hear of a girl looking for a nice husband, I'll recommend you."

"It's all very nice," said he with a wry grin, "but I'm hanged if I ought to be expected to remember all of my accomplishments." They were sitting in her room, attended by the faithful duenna, Constance. "First, the eyeglass; then the English language, with which I find I'm most unfamiliar; then a deafness in one of my ears—I can't remember which until it's too late; and now I'm to be a tubercular. You've no idea how hard it is for me to speak English against Odell-Carney. I'm an out-and-out amateur beside him. And it's horribly annoying to have Ulstervelt shouting in my ear loud enough for everybody in the dining-room to hear. It's rich, I tell you, and if I didn't love you so devotedly, Edith, I'd be on my way at this very instant. There! I feel better. 'On my way' is the first American line I've had in the farce since we left Stuttgart. By the way, Edith, I'm afraid I'll have to punch Odell-Carney's confounded head before long. He's getting to be so friendly to me as Roxbury Medcroft that I can't endure him as Brock."

"I—I don't understand," murmured Edith plaintively. Constance looked up with a new interest in her ever sprightly face.

"Well, you see, he's working so hard to square himself with Medcroft for the break he made about the windows, that he's taking his spite out on all American architects. Confound him, he persists in saying I'm all right, but God deliver him from those demmed rotters, the American builders. He says he wouldn't let one of us build a hencoop for him, much less a dog kennel. Oh, I say, Connie, don't laugh! How would you like it if—" But both of them were laughing at him so merrily that he joined them at once. Burton and O'Brien, who had come in, were smiling discreetly.

"Come, Roxbury, what do you say to a good long walk?" cried Constance. "I must talk to you seriously about a great many things, beginning with egotism." He set forth with alacrity, rejoicing in spite of his limitations.

Upon their return from the delightful stroll along the mountain side, she went at once to her room to dress for dinner. Brock, more deeply in love than ever before, lighted a cigar and seated himself in the gallery, dubiously retrospective in his meditations. He was sorely disturbed by her almost constant allusion to Freddie Ulstervelt and his "amazingly attractive ways." Was it possible that she could be really in love with that insignificant little whipper-snapper? He seemed to be propounding this doleful question to the lofty, sphinx-like Waldraster-Spitze, looming dark in the path of the south.

"Hello!" exclaimed a voice close to his ear,—the fresh, confident voice that he knew so well. "I've been looking for you everywhere." Freddie drew up a chair and sat down at his "good side." The young man appeared to have something weighty on his mind. Brock shifted uneasily. "I want to put it up to you, Mr. Medcroft, as man to man. You are Connie's brother-in-law and you ought to be able to set me straight."

"Ah, I see," said Brock vaguely.

"You do?" queried the other, surprise and doubt in his face.

"No, I should say I don't, don't you see," substituted Brock.

"I was wondering how you could have seen. It's a matter I haven't discussed with anyone. I've come to have a liking for you, Roxbury. You're my sort; you have a sort of New York feeling about you. I'm sure you're enough of a sport to give me unprejudiced advice. Hands across the sea, see? Well, to get right down to the point, old man,—you'll pardon my plain speech,—I think Constance ought to marry an American."

Brock sat up very straight. "I think that's—that's a matter for Miss Fowler to determine," he said coldly.

"You don't quite get my meaning," persisted Freddie, crossing his legs comfortably. "I was trying to make it easy for myself."

"You mean, you think she ought to marry you?"

"That's it, precisely. How clever you are."

"But you are said to be engaged to Miss Rodney," ventured Brock, feeling his way.

"That's just the point, Mr. Medcroft. We're not really engaged—but almost. As a matter of fact, we've got to the point where it's really up to me to speak to her father about it, don't you know. Luckily, I haven't."

"Luckily?"

"Yes. That would have committed me, don't you see. I've been tentatively engaged more than a dozen times, but never quite up to the girl's father. Now, I don't mind telling you that I've changed my mind about Katherine. She's a jolly good sort, but she's not just my sort. I thought she was, but—well, you know how it is yourself. The heart's a damned queer organ. Mine has gone back to Constance in the last two days. You are her brother-in-law, and you're a good fellow, through and through. I want your help. I've got money to burn, and the family's got position in the States. I can take care of her as she should be taken care of. No little old six-room flat for her. But, of course, you understand, I can't quite carry the thing through with Katherine still feeling herself attached, as it were. The thing to decide is this: how best can I let Katherine down easily and take on Connie without putting myself in a rather hazardous position? I'm a gentleman, you see, and I can't do anything downright rotten. It wouldn't do. I'm sure, in her heart, Connie cares for me. I could make her understand me better if I had half the chance. But a fellow can't get near her nowadays. Don't you think you are carrying the family link too far? Now, what I want to ask of you, as a friend, is this: will you put in a good word for me every chance you get? I'll square myself with Katherine all right. Of course, you'll understand, I don't want to actually break with Katherine until I'm reasonably sure of Constance. I'm a guest of the Rodney family, you see. It would be downright indecent of me. No, sir! I'm not that sort. I shouldn't think of ending it all with Katherine so long as we are both guests of her father. I'd wait until the end of next week."

Brock had listened in utter amazement to the opening portion of this ingenuous proposal. As the flexile youth progressed, amazement gave place to indignation and then to disgust. Brock's brow grew dark; the impulse to pull his countryman's nose was hard to overcome. Never in all his life had he listened to such a frankly cold-blooded argument as that put forth by the insufferable Knicker-bocker. In the end the big New Yorker saw only the laughable side of the little New Yorker's plight. After all, he was a harmless egoist, from whom no girl could expect much in the way of recompense. It mattered little who the girl of the moment might be, she could not hope to or even seek to hold his perambulatory affections. "He's a single example of a great New York class," reflected Brock. "The futile, priggish rich! There are thousands like him in my dear New York—conscienceless, invertebrate, sybaritic sons of idleness, college-bred and under-bred little beasts who can buy and then cast off at their pleasure. They have no means of knowing how to fall in love with a good girl. They have not been trained to it. It is not for their scrambled intellects to discriminate between the chorus-girl brand of attack and the subtle wooing of a gentlewoman. They can't analyse—they can't feel! And this insipid, egotistical little bounder is actually sitting there and asking me to help him with the girl I love! Good Lord, what next?" He surveyed the eager Ulstervelt in the most irritating manner, finally laughing outright in his face. The very thought of him as Connie's accepted lover! She, the adorable, the splendid, the unapproachable! It was excruciatingly funny!

"Oh, I say, old man," cried Freddie, when the disconcerting laugh came, "don't laugh! It's no damned joke."

"'Pon my soul, Ulstervelt," apologised Brock, with a magnanimous smile, "I haven't said it was a joke. You—"

"Then, what are you laughing at? Something you heard yesterday?" with fine scorn. Brock stared hard at the flushed, boyish face of the other; it was weak and yet as hard as brass, hard with the overbearing confidence of the spoiled child of wealth.

"See here, Ulstervelt," he said with sudden coldness, "you're asking my help. That's no way to get it."

"I beg pardon! I don't mean to be rude," apologised Freddie. "But, I say, old man, I'll make it worth your while. My father's got stacks of coin, and he's a power in New York. Odell-Carney's right. American architects can't design good hencoops. What we want in New York is a rattling good, up-to-date Englishman or two to show 'em a few things. They're a lot of muckers over there, take it from me. By Jove, Roxbury, you don't know how I'd appreciate your friendship in this matter. It will simplify things immensely. You'll speak a good word for me when the time comes, now, won't you?"

"You want me to do you a good turn," said Brock slowly. He found himself grinning with a malicious joy. "All right, I'll see to it that Miss Rodney doesn't marry you, my boy. I'll attend to her."

"Just a minute," interrupted Freddie quickly. "Don't be too hasty about that. I want to be sure of Constance first."

"I see. I was just about to add that I'll give Constance a strong hint that one of the most gallant young sparks in New York is likely to propose to her before the end of the week. That will—"

"Heavens!" exclaimed Freddie, in disgust. "You needn't do that. I've already proposed to her five or six times."

"And she—she is undecided?" cried Brock, his eyes darkening.

"No, hang it all, she's not undecided. She's said no every time. That's why I'm up a tree, so to speak."

"Oh?" was all that Brock said. Of course she couldn't love a creature of Freddie's stamp! He gloated!

"'Gad, you're a lucky dog, Roxbury," went on Freddie enviously. "Money isn't everything. You're married to one of the prettiest and most fascinating women in the world. She's a wonder. You can't blame me for wanting your wife as a sister-in-law. Now, can you? And that kid! You lucky dog!"



CHAPTER V

THE FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY

Brock discovered in due time that he was living in a lofty but uncertain place, among the clouds of exaltation. It was not until the close of the succeeding day that he began to lower himself grudgingly from the height to which Freddie's ill-mannered confession had led him. By that time he satisfactorily had convinced himself that no one but a fool could have suspected Constance of being in love with Ulstervelt; and yet, on the other hand, was he any better off for this cheerful argument? There was nothing to prove that she cared for him, notwithstanding this agreeable conclusion by contrast. As a matter of fact, he came earthward with a rush, weighted down by the conviction that she did not care a rap for him except as a conveniently moral brother-in-law. He was further distressed by Edith's comfortless, though perhaps well-qualified, announcement that she believed her sister to be in love; she could not imagine with whom; she only knew she "acted as if she were."

"Besides, Roxbury," she said warningly, "it's a most degenerate husband who falls in love with his wife's sister."

They were walking in one of the mountain paths, some distance behind the others. They did not know that Mrs. Odell-Carney had stopped to rest in the leafy niche above the path. She was lazily fanning herself on the stone seat that man had provided as an improvement to nature. Being a sharp-eared person with a London drawing-room instinct, she plainly could hear what they were saying as they approached. These were the first words she fully grasped, and they caused her to prick up her ears:

"I don't give a hang, Edith. I'm tired of being her brother-in-law."

"You're tired of me, Roxbury, that's what it is," in plaintive tones.

"You're happy, you love and are loved, so please don't put it that way. It's not fair. Think of the pitiable position I'm in."

"My dear Roxbury," quite severely, "if there's nothing else that will influence you, just stop to consider the che-ild! There's Tootles, dear Tootles, to think of."

Of course Mrs. Odell-Carney could not be expected to know that Edith was blithely jesting.

"My dear Edith," he said, just as firmly "Tootles has nothing to do with the case. You know, and Constance knows, and I know, and the whole world will soon know that I'm not even related to her, poor little beggar. I don't see why she should come between me and happiness just because she happens to bear a social resemblance to a man who isn't her father. Come, now, let's talk over the situation sensibly."

Just then they passed beyond the hearing of the astonished eavesdropper. Good heaven, what was this? Not his child? Two minutes later Mrs. Odell-Carney was back at the spring where they had left her somnolent husband, who had refused to climb a hill because all of his breath was required to smoke a cigaret.

"Carney," she said sternly, her lips rigid, her eyes set hard upon his face, "how long have the Medcrofts been married?"

He blinked heavily. "How the devil should I know? 'Pon me word, it's—"

"Four years, I think Mrs. Rodney told me. How old is that baby?"

"'Pon me soul, Agatha, I'm as much in the dark as you. I don't know."

"A little over a year, I'd say. Well, I just heard Medcroft say that she wasn't his child. Whose is it?" She stood there like an accusing angel. He started violently, and his jaw dropped; an expression of alarmed protest leaped into his listless eyes.

"'Pon me word, Agatha, how the devil should I know? Don't look at me like that. Give you my word of honour, I don't know the woman. 'Pon me soul, I don't, my dear."

He was very much in earnest, thoroughly aroused by what seemed to be a direct insinuation.

"Oh, don't be stupid," she cried. "Good heavens, can there be a scandal in that lovely woman's life?"

"There's never any scandal in a woman's life unless she's reasonably lovely," remarked he.

"Whose child is she, if she isn't Medcroft's?" she pursued with a perplexed frown.

"Demme, Agatha, don't ask me," he said irritably, passing his hand over his brow. "I've told you that twice. Ask them; I daresay they know."

She looked at him in disgust. "As if I could do such a thing as that! Dear me, I don't understand it at all. Four years married. Yes, I'm sure that's it. Carney, you don't suppose—" She hesitated. It was not necessary to complete the obvious question.

"Agatha," said he, weighing his remark carefully, "I've said all along that Medcroft is a fool. Take those windows, for instance. If he—"

"Oh, rubbish! What have the windows to do with it? You are positively stupid. And I'd come to like her too. Yes, I'd even asked her to come and see me." She was really distressed.

"And why not?" he demanded. "Hang it all, Agatha, it's nothing unusual. She's a jolly good sort and a sight too good for Medcroft. He's a stupid ass. I've said so all along. How the devil she ever married him, I can't see. But, by Jove, Agatha, I can readily see how she might have loved the father of this child, no matter who he is. Take my advice, my dear, and don't be harsh in your judgment. Don't say a word about what you've heard. If they are reconciled to the—er—the situation, why the devil should we give a hang? And, above all, don't let these Rodneys suspect." Here he lowered his voice gradually. "They're a pack of rotters and they couldn't understand. They'd cut her, even if she is a cousin or whatever it is. I've give a year or two of my life to know positively whether Rodney intends taking those shares or not." He said it in contemplative delight in what he would do if it were definitely settled. "I can't stand them much longer."

"What great variety of Americans there are," she reflected. "Mrs. Medcroft and her sister are Americans. Compare them with the Rodneys and Mr. Ulstervelt. No, Carney, I'll not start a scandal. The Rodneys would not understand, as you say. They'd tear her to shreds and gloat over the mutilation. No; we'll have her to see us in London. I like her."

"And, by Jove, Agatha, I like her sister."

"My dear, the baby is a darling."

"But what an ass Medcroft is!"

And thus is it proved that Mrs. Odell-Carney was not only a dutiful wife in taking her husband into her confidence, but also that jointly they enjoyed a peculiarly rational outlook upon the world as they had come to know it and to feel for the people thereof. It is of small consequence that they could not find it in their power to be in tune with the virtuous Rodneys: the Rodneys were conditions, not effects.

However that may be, it was Katherine Rodney, pretty, plump, and spoiled, who pulled the first stone from the foundation of Medcroft's house of cards. Katherine had convinced herself that she was deeply enamoured of the volatile Freddie; the more she thought that she loved him, the greater became the conviction that he did not care as much for her as he professed. She began to detect a decided falling off in his ardour; it was no use trying to hide the fact from herself that Constance was the most disturbing symptom in evidence. Jealousy succeeded speculation. Katherine decided to be hateful; she could not have helped it if she had tried.

It was very evident, to her at least, that Freddie was not to blame; he was being led on by the artful Miss Fowler. There could be no doubt of it—none in the least, declared Miss Rodney in the privacy of her own miserable reflections.

Just as she was on the point of carrying her woes to her mother, an astounding revelation came to her out of a clear sky; an entirely new condition came into the problem. It dawned upon her suddenly, without warning, that Roxbury Medcroft was in love with his sister-in-law!



When she burst in upon her mother, half an hour later, that excellent lady started up from her couch, alarmed by the excitement in her daughter's face. Mrs. Rodney, good soul, was one of the kind who always think the world is coming to an end, or the house is on fire, or the king has been assassinated, if any one approaches with a look of distress in his face.

"My dear, my dear!" she cried, as Katherine stopped tragically in the doorway. "What has happened to your father? Speak!"

"Mamma, it's worse than that! I—"

"Merciful heaven!" The good lady blindly reached for her smelling salts.

"I've made a dreadful discovery," went on Katherine in suppressed tones. "It came to me like a flash. I couldn't believe my own brain. So I watched them from my window. There's no doubt about it, mamma. It's as plain as the nose on your face. He—"

"My darling, what are you talking about? Is my nose—what is the matter with my nose?" She vaguely felt of her nose in horror.

"He's in love with her. There's no mistake. And, will you believe me, mamma, she is encouraging him! Positively! Why—why, it's utterly contemptible! Oh, dear, what are we to do?"

Mrs. Rodney looked blankly at her daughter, who had thrown herself in a chair. She gasped and then gave vent to a tremulous squeak.

"In love! Your father? With whom—who is she?"

"Father? Oh, Lord, mother, I didn't say anything about father. Don't cry! It's another man altogether."

"Not Freddie Ulstervelt?" quavered Mrs. Rodney, pulling herself together. "After all he has said to you—"

"No, no, mamma," cried her daughter irritably. "Freddie may be in love with her, but he's not the only one. Mamma!" She straightened up and looked at her mother with wide, horror-struck eyes, "Roxbury Medcroft is madly in love with Constance Fowler!"

Mrs. Rodney did not utter a sound for fully a minute and a half. She never took her eyes from her daughter's distressed face. The colour was coming back into her own, and her lips were setting themselves into thin red lines above her rigid chin.

"I'm sorry, Katherine, that you have seen it too. I have suspected it for several days. But I have not dared to speak—it seemed too improbable. What are we to do?" She sat down suddenly, even weakly.

"She's not only leading Freddie on, but she's flirting with her own brother-in-law—her own sister's husband—her—her—"

"Her own niece's father! It's atrocious!"

"She's a horrid beast! And I thought I loved her. Oh, mamma, it's just dreadful!"

"Katherine, control yourself. I will not have you upsetting yourself like this. You'll have another of those awful headaches. Leave it all to me, dear. Something must be done. We can't stand by and see dear Edith betrayed. She's so happy and so trusting. And, besides all that, we'd be dragged into the scandal. I—"

"And the Odell-Carneys too. Heavens!"

"It must be stopped! I shall go at once to Mrs. Odell-Carney and tell her what we have discovered. It will prepare her. She is the best friend I have, and I know she will suggest a way to put a stop to this thing before it is too late. We must—"

"Why don't you speak to father about it first?"

"Your father! My dear, what would be the use? He wouldn't believe it. He never does. I wonder if dear Mrs. Odell-Carney is in her room." The estimable lady fluttered loosely toward the door. Her daughter called to her.

"If I were you, I'd wait a day or two, mamma." She was quite cool and very calculating now. "It may adjust itself, and—and if we can just drop a hint that we suspect, they won't be so—so—well, so public about it. I know—I just know that Freddie will be disgusted with her if he sees how she's carrying on." Katherine suddenly had realised that good might spring from evil, after all.

In the mean time, young Mr. Ulstervelt was having troubles and disappointments of his own. Persistent effort to make love to Miss Fowler had finally resulted in an almost peremptory command to desist. An unlucky impulse to hold her hand during one of his attempts to "try her out" met with disaster. Miss Fowler snatched her hand away and, with a look he never forgot, abruptly left him. "It's all off with her," ruminated Freddie, shivering slightly as an after effect of the icy stare she had given him. "She's got it in for me, for some reason or other. Wow! That was a frost! I feel it yet. Medcroft has played the deuce helping me. I wonder if— Hello! There's Katherine."

Freddie did some rapid-fire thinking in the next half-minute, with the result that Constance Fowler was banished forever from his calculations and Katherine Rodney restored to her own. So long as he could not possibly win Constance he figured that he might just as well devote himself to the girl he was virtually engaged to marry. Freddie's was a convenient and adaptable constancy. Miss Fowler out of sight was also out of mind; he descended upon Katherine with all of the old ardour shining in his eyes. It was soon after Miss Rodney's conference with her mother, and the young lady was off for a walk in the town.

"Hello, Katherine," called he, coming up from behind. "Shopping? Take me along to carry the bundles. I want to begin now."

It was Miss Rodney's fancy to receive his advances with disdain. She assumed a most unfriendly manner.

"Indeed?" with chilling irony. "And why, may I ask?"

Freddie was taken aback. This was most unexpected.

"Practice makes perfect," he said glibly. "Don't you want me to carry 'em, Kitty?" He said it almost tearfully.

Katherine exulted inwardly. Outwardly she was very cool and very baffling. "Please don't call me Kitty. I hate it."

"It's a dear little name. That's what I'm going to call you when we are—well, you know."

"I don't know. What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come now, Miss Rodney. Don't be so icy. What's up? Never mind—don't tell me. I know. You're jealous of Connie." It was a bold stroke and it had an immediate effect.

"Jealous!" she scoffed, but her cheeks went red. "Not I, Freddie." She considered for a second and then went on: "She's not in love with you. You must be blind. She's crazy about Mr. Medcroft."

"By Jove," exclaimed Freddie, stopping short, his eyes bulging. He looked at her for a minute in silence, realisation sifting into his face. "You're right! She is in love with him. I see it now. Well, what do you think of that! Her brother-in-law!"

"And he is in love with her too. Now you may go back to her and see if you can't win her away from him. I shan't interfere, my dear Freddie. Don't have me on your conscience. Good-by."

She left him standing there in the street. With well-practised tact he darted into a tobacconist's shop.

"Another shake-down," he reflected ruefully. "They're all passing me up to-day. But, great hooks, what's all this about Medcroft and Constance?" He bought some cigarets and started off for a walk, mildly excited by this new turn of affairs. It occurred to him, as he turned it all over in his mind, that Mrs. Medcroft was amazingly resigned to the situation. Of course, she was not blind to her husband's infatuation for her sister. Therefore, if she were so cheerful and indifferent about it, it followed that she was not especially distressed; in fact, it suddenly dawned upon him she was not only reconciled but relieved. She had ceased to love her husband! She could be a freelance in Love's lists, notwithstanding the inconvenience of a legal attachment. "She's ripping, too," concluded Freddie, with a certain buoyancy of spirit. "If she doesn't love Medcroft, she at least ought to love someone else instead. It's customary. I wonder—" Here he reflected deeply for an instant, his spirits floating high. Then he turned abruptly and made his way to the Tirol.

It came to pass, in the course of the evening, that Mr. Ulstervelt, supremely confident from the effect of past achievements, drew the unsuspecting Mrs. Medcroft into a secluded tete-a-tete. It is not of record that he was ever a diplomatic wooer; one in haste never is. Suffice it to say, Mrs. Medcroft, her cheeks flaming, her eyes wide with indignation, suddenly left the side of the indomitable Freddie and joined the party at the other end of the entresol, but not before she had said to him with unmistakable clearness and decision,—

"You little wretch! How dare you say such silly things to me!"

The rebuff decisive! And he had only meant to be comforting, not to say self-sacrificing. He'd be hanged if he could understand women nowadays. Not these women, at least. In high dudgeon he stalked from the room. In the door he met Brock.

"For two cents," he declared savagely, as if Brock were to blame, "I'd take the next train for Paris."

Brock watched him down the hall. He drew a handful of small coins from his pocket, ruefully looking them over. "Two cents," he said. "Hang it all, I've nothing here but pfennigs and hellers and centimes."

In the course of his wanderings the disconsolate Freddie came upon Mrs. Odell-Carney and pudgy Mr. Rodney. They were sitting in a quiet corner of the reading-room. Mr. Rodney had had a hard day. He had climbed a mountain—or, more accurately speaking, he had climbed half-way up and then the same half down. He was very tired. Freddie observed from his lonely station that Mr. Rodney was fast dropping to sleep, notwithstanding his companion's rapid flow of small talk. It did not take Freddie long to decide. He was an outcast and a pariah and he was very lonely. He must have someone to talk to. Without more ado he bore down upon the couple, and a moment later was tactfully advising the sleepy Mr. Rodney to take himself off to bed,—advice which that gentleman gladly accepted. And so it came about that Freddie sat face to face with the last resort, at the foot of the chaise-longue, gazing with serene adulation into the eyes of a woman who might have had a son as old as he—if she had had one at all. She had been a coquette in her salad days; there was no doubt of it. She had encountered fervid gallants in all parts of the world and in all stations of life. But it remained for the gallant Freddie Ulstervelt to bowl her over with surprise for the first time in her long and varied career. At the end of half an hour she pulled herself together and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan, a quizzical smile on her lips.

"My dear Mr. Ulstervelt, are you trying to make love to me? You nice Americans! How gallant you can be. I am quite old enough to be your mother. Believe me, I thank you for the compliment. I can't tell you how I appreciate this delicate flattery. You are very delicious. But," as she arose graciously, "I'd follow Mr. Rodney's example if I were you. I'd go to bed." Then, with a rare smile which could not have been more chilling, she left him standing there.

"By Jove," he muttered, passing his hand across his eyes, as if bewildered, "what was I saying to her? Good Lord, has it got to be a habit with me? Was I making love to—her?" He departed for the American bar.

Mrs. Rodney had but little sleep that night. She went to bed in a state of worry and uncertainty, oppressed by the shadows which threatened eternal darkness to the fair name of the family—however distantly removed. Katherine's secret had in reality been news to her; she had not paid enough attention to the Medcrofts to notice anything that they did, so long as they did not do it in conjunction with the Odell-Carneys. The Odell-Carneys were her horizon,—morning, noon, and night. And now there was likelihood of that glorious horizon being obscured by a sickening scandal in the vulgar foreground. Inspired by Katherine's dreadful conclusions, the excellent lady set about to observe for herself. During the entire evening she flitted about the hotel and grounds with all the snooping instincts of a Sherlock Holmes. She lurked, if that is not putting it too theatrically. From unexpected nooks she emerged to view the landscape o'er; by devious paths she led her doubts to the gates of absolute certainty, and then sat down to shudder to her heart's content. It was all true! For four hours she had been trying to get to the spot where she could see with her own eyes, and at last she had come to it. Of course, she had to admit to herself that she did not actually hear Mr. Medcroft tell Constance that he loved her, but it was enough for her that he sat with her in the semi-darkness for two unbroken hours, speaking in tones so low that they might just as well have been whispering so far as her taut ears were concerned.

Moreover, other persons than herself had smilingly nudged each other and referred to the couple as lovers; no one seemed to doubt it—nor to resent it, which is proof that the world loves a lover when it recognises him as one.

Mrs. Rodney also discovered that Mrs. Medcroft went to her room at nine o'clock, at least three hours before the subdued tete-a-tete came to an end. The poor thing doubtless was crying her eyes out, decided Mrs. Rodney.

And now, after all this, is it to be considered surprising that the distressed mother of Katherine did not sleep well that night? Nor should her wakefulness be laid at the door of the tired Mr. Rodney, who was ever a firm and stentorian sleeper.

Morning came, and with it a horseback ride for Brock and Miss Fowler. That was enough for Mrs. Rodney; she would hold in no longer. Mrs. Odell-Carney must be told; she, at least, must have the chance to escape before the storm of scandal broke to muddy her immaculate skirts. Forthwith the considerate hostess appeared before her guest with a headful of disclosures. She had decided in advance that it would not do to beat about the bush, so to speak; she would come directly to the obnoxious point.

They were in Mrs. Odell-Carney's sitting-room. Mr. Odell-Carney was smoking a cigaret on the balcony, just outside the window. Mrs. Rodney did not know that he was there. It is only natural that he held himself inhospitably aloof: Mrs. Rodney bored him to death. He did not hear all that was poured out between them, but he heard quite enough to cause him something of a pang. He distinctly heard his wife say things to Mrs. Rodney that she had solemnly avowed she would not say,—things about the Medcroft baby.

It goes without saying that Mrs. Odell-Carney refused to be surprised by the disclosures. She calmly admitted that she had suspected Medcroft of being too fond of his sister-in-law, but, she went on cheerfully, why not? His wife didn't care a rap for him—she said rap and nothing else; Mrs. Medcroft had an affair of her own, dear child; she was not so slow as Mrs. Rodney thought, oh, no. Mrs. Odell-Carney warmed up considerably in defending the not-to-be-pitied Edith. She said she had liked her from the beginning, and more than ever, now that she had really come to the conclusion that her husband was the kind who sets his wife an example by being a bit divaricating himself.

Mrs. Rodney fairly screeched with horror when she heard that Tootles was "a poor little beggar," and "all that sort of thing, you know."

"My dear," said Mrs. Odell-Carney, hating herself all the time for engaging in the spread of gossip, but femininely unable to withstand the test, "your excellent cousin, Mrs. Medcroft, receives two letters a day from London,—great, fat letters which take fifteen minutes to read in spite of the fact that they are written in a perfectly huge hand by a man—a man, d'ye hear? They're not from her husband. He's here. He cannot have written them in London, don't you see? He—"

"I see," inserted Mrs. Rodney, who was afraid that Mrs. Odell-Carney might think she didn't see.

"Mind your Mrs. Rodney, I'm terribly cut up about all this. She has—"

"Oh, I knew you would be," mourned Mrs. Rodney, her heart in her boots. "You must just hate me for exposing you to—"

"Rubbish!" scoffed the other. "It isn't that. I've been through a dozen affairs in which my best friends were frightfully—er—complicated. I meant to say that I'm terribly cut up over poor Mrs. Medcroft. She's a dear. Believe me, she's a most delicious sinner. Even Carney says that, and he's very fastidious—and very loyal."

"They are married in name only," said Mrs. Rodney, beginning to sniffle. She looked up and smiled wanly through her tears. "You know what I mean. My grammar is terrible when I'm nervous." She pulled at her handkerchief for a wavering moment. "Do you think I'd better speak to Edith? We may be able to prevent the divorce."

"Divorce, my dear," gasped Mrs. Odell-Carney incredulously.

At this juncture Mr. Odell-Carney emerged from his shell, so to speak. He stalked through the window and confronted the two ladies, one of whom, at least, was vastly dismayed by his sudden appearance.

"Now, see here," he began without preliminary apology, "I won't hear of a divorce. That's all rubbish—perfect rot, 'pon my soul. Wot's the use? Hang it all, Mrs. Rodney, wot's the odds, so long as all parties are contented? We can stand it, by Jove, if they can, don't you know. We can't regulate the love affairs of the universe. Besides, I'm not going to stand by and see a friend dragged into a thing of this sort—"

"A friend, Carney," exclaimed his wife.

"Well, it's possible, my dear, that he may be a friend. I know so many chaps in London who might be doing this sort of thing, don't you know. Who knows but the chap who's writing her these letters may be one of my best friends? It doesn't pay to take a chance on it. I won't hear to it. If Medcroft knows and his wife knows and Miss Fowler knows, why the deuce should we bother our heads about it? Last night I heard the Medcroft infant bawling its lungs out—teething, I daresay—but did I go in and take a hand in straightening out the poor little beggar? Not I. By the same token, why should I or anybody else presume to step in and try to straighten out the troubles of its parents? It's useless interference, either way you take it."

"I think it's all very entertaining and diverting," said Mrs. Odell-Carney carelessly. She yawned.

"Do you really think so?" asked the doubting Mrs. Rodney. "I was so afraid you'd mind. Your position in society, my dear Mrs.—"

"My position in society, Mrs. Rodney, can weather the tempest you predict," said Mrs. Odell-Carney with a smile that went to Mrs. Rodney's marrow.

"Oh, if—if you really don't mind—" she mumbled apologetically.

"Not at all, my dear madam," remarked Odell-Carney, carefully adjusting his eyeglass. "It's quite immaterial, I assure you."



CHAPTER VI

OTHER RELATIONS

It is but natural to presume, after the foregoing, that the affairs of the Medcrofts were under close and careful scrutiny from that confidential hour. The Odell-Carneys were conspicuously nice and agreeable to the Medcrofts and Miss Fowler. It may be said, indeed, that Mr. Odell-Carney went considerably out of his way to be agreeable to Mrs. Medcroft; so much so, in fact, that she made it a point to have someone else with her whenever she seemed likely to be left alone with him. The Rodneys struggled bravely and no doubt conscientiously to emulate the example set by the Odell-Carneys, but it was hardly to be expected that they could see new things through old-world eyes. They grew very stiff and ceremonious,—that is, the Rodney ladies did. It was their prerogative, of course: were they not cousins of the diseased?

Four or five days of uneasy pretence passed with a swiftness that irritated certain members of the party and a slowness that distressed the others. Days never were so short as those which the now recklessly infatuated Brock was spending. He was valiantly earning his way into the heart of Constance,—a process that tried his patience exceedingly, for she was blithely unimpressionable, if one were to judge by the calmness with which she fended off the inevitable though tardy assault. She kept him at arm's length; appearances demanded a discreetness, no matter how she may secretly have felt toward the good-looking husband of her sister. To say that she was enjoying herself would be putting it much too tamely; she was revelling in the fun of the thing. It mattered little to her that people—her own cousins in particular—were looking upon her with cold and critical eyes; she knew, down in her heart, that she could throw a bomb among them at any time by the mere utterance of a single word. It mattered as little that Edith was beginning to chafe miserably under the strain of waiting and deception; the novelty had worn off for the wife of Roxbury; she was despairingly in love, and she was pining for the day to come when she could laugh again with real instead of simulated joyousness.

"Connie, dear," she would lament a dozen times a day, "it's growing unbearable. Oh, how I wish the three weeks were ended. Then I could have my Roxbury, and you could have my other Roxbury, and everybody wouldn't be pitying me and cavilling at you because I'm unhappily married."

"Why do you say I could have your other Roxbury?" demanded her sister on one occasion. "You forget that father expects me to marry the viscount. I—"

"You are so tiresome, Connie. Don't worry me with your love affairs—I don't want to hear them. There's Mr. Brock waiting for you in the garden."

"I know it, my dear. He's been waiting for an hour. I think it is good for him to wait," said the other, with airy confidence. "What does Roxy say in his letter this morning?"

"He says it will all be over in a day or two. Dear me, how I wish it were over now! I can't endure Cousin Mary's snippishness much longer, and as for Katherine! My dear, I hate that girl!"

"She's been very nice lately, Edith—ever since Freddie dropped me so completely. By the way, Burton was telling me to-day that Odell-Carney had been asking her some very curious and staggering questions about Tootles and your most private affairs."

"I know, my dear," groaned Edith. "He very politely remarked to me last night that Tootles made him think very strangely of a friend of his in London. He wouldn't mention the fellow's name. He only smiled and said, 'Nevah mind, my dear, he's a c'nfended handsome dog.' I daresay he meant that as a compliment for Tootles. She is pretty, don't you think so, dear?"

"She's just like you, Edith," said Constance, who understood things quite clearly.

"Then, in heaven's name, Connie, why are they staring at her so impolitely—all of them?"

"It's because she is so pretty. Goodness, Edith, don't let every little thing worry you. You'll have wrinkles and grey hairs soon enough."

"It's all very nice for you to talk," grumbled Edith. "I'm going mad with loneliness. You have a lover near you all the time—he's mad about you. What have I? I'm utterly alone. No one loves me—no, not a soul—"

"You won't let them love you, Edith," said Constance jauntily. "They all want to love you—all of them."

"I hate men," announced Mrs. Medcroft, retrospectively.

Developments of a most refractory character swooped down upon them at the very end of the sojourn in Innsbruck. Every one had begun to rejoice in the fact that the fortnight was almost over, and that they could go their different ways without having anything really regrettable to carry away with them. The Rodneys were going to Paris, the Medcrofts to London, the Odell-Carneys (after finding out where the others were bent) to Ostend. Freddie Ulstervelt suddenly announced his determination to remain at the Tirol for a week or two longer. That very day he had been introduced to a Mademoiselle Le Brun, a fascinating young Parisian, stopping at the Tirol with her mother.

All might have ended well had it not been for the unfortunate circumstance of Odell-Carney's making a purchase of the London Standard instead of the Times, as was his custom. His lamentations over this piece of stupidity were cut short by the discovery of an astonishing article upon the editorial page of the paper—an article which created within him a sense of grave perplexity. He read the headlines thrice and glanced through the text twice, neither time with any very definite idea of what he was reading. His fingers shook as he held the sheet nearer the window for a final effort to untangle the incredible thing that lay before him in simple, unimpeachable black and white.

"'Pon me word," he kept repeating to himself feebly. Then he got up and went off in extreme haste to find his wife.

"My dear," he said to her in the carriage-way, "I must speak with you alone." She was just starting off for a drive with Mrs. Rodney.

"Bad news, Carney?" she demanded, struck by his expression. She was following him toward a remote corner of the approach. He did not reply until they were seated, much nearer to each other than was their wont.

"Read that," he said, slipping the Standard into her hands. "Wot do you think of it?"

"My dear Carney, I don't know. Would you mind telling me what I am to read?"

"The Medcroft thing. Right there."

She read the article, her husband watching her face the while. Surprise, incredulity, dismay, succeeded each other in rapid changes. She was reading in sheer amazement of the doings of Roxbury Medcroft in connection with the County Council's sub-committee—in London! The story went on to relate how Medcroft, implacable leader of the opposition to the "grafters," suddenly had appeared before the committee with the most astounding figures and facts to support his charges of rottenness on the part of the "clique"; his unexpected descent upon the scene had thrown the opposing leaders into a panic; every one had been led to believe that he was sojourning in the east. As a matter of fact, it was soon revealed, he had been in London, secretly working on the problem, for nearly three weeks, keeping discreetly under cover in order that his influence might not be thwarted. His array of facts, his bitter arraignment of the men who were trying to force the building bill through the Council, staggered the whole city of London. At that writing it looked as though the bill would be overthrown, its promoters had been so completely put to rout. The committee would be compelled to take cognisance of the startling exposure—the people would demand a full threshing out of the obnoxious deal. Roxbury Medcroft's name was on every one's lips. The Standard had profited by securing a great "beat."

The Odell-Carneys looked at each other in wonder and perplexity. "What does it mean?" asked the lady, her eyes narrowing.

"Look here, Agatha, this paper's at least two days old. Now, how the devil can Medcroft be in London and Innsbruck at the same time. He was here day before yesterday, wasn't he? I'm so c'nfended unobserving—"

"Yes, yes, he was here. And this paper—" She paused irresolutely.

"Says he was there. 'Pon my word, it's most uncanny. There's some mystery here."

"I've got it, Carney! This is not Roxbury Medcroft."

"Good Gawd!"

"This explains everything. Heavens, Carney! This fellow is—is her lover! She's running about the country with him. She's—"

"Her lover? 'Gad, my dear, he may have been so at one time, but he's the other one's lover now, take my word for it. I say, 'pon my soul, this is a charming game your friends the Rodneys have let us into. They—"

"My friends! Yours, you mean!" she retorted.

"Oh, come now! But let it go at that. They know, of course, that this fellow isn't her husband, and yet, by Gad, Agatha, they've gone about deliberately palming him off on us as the real article. They are actually sanctioning the whole bloody—"

"Stop a moment, Carney," interrupted his wife. "The London chap may be the fraud. Let us go slow, my dear."

"Slow? How the devil can we go slow in such fast company? No! This fellow is the fraud. And they knew it too. They all know it. They—"

"Rubbish! You forget that the whole Rodney tribe is up in arms because Medcroft is making love to his wife's sister. They're not assuming anything there, let me tell you. And he's not Edith's lover. If he's not her husband, he's playing a part that she understands and approves. And this—this, my dear Carney, may account for the imaginary orphanage of Tootles. Dear me, it's quite a tangle."

"I shall telegraph my solicitors at once for definite news. They'll know whether the real Medcroft is in London, and then—well, by Jove, Agatha, I can't tell just wot steps I'll take in regard to these Rodneys."

He went into a long tirade against the unfortunate Seattle-ites, as he called them. "Understand me, Agatha, I don't blame Mrs. Medcroft. If she's having an affair with this chap and can pull the wool—"

"But she isn't having an affair with this chap," cried Mrs. Odell-Carney, her patience exhausted. "She's having an affair with a chap in London—the one who writes—Good gracious! Of course! Why, what fools we are. The real Medcroft is in London, and it is he who is writing the letters. How stupid of me!"

"Aha!" exclaimed he triumphantly. "Of course, she's getting letters from her husband. Why not? That's to be expected. But, by the everlasting shagpat, do you suppose that her husband knows she's off here with another fellow who masquerades as her husband? No!" He almost shouted it. "I've never heard of anything so brazen. 'Gad, what nerve these Americans have. Just to think of it!"

"I don't believe she is anything of the sort," declared his wife. "She's as good as gold. You can't fool me, Carney. I know women."

"Deuce take it, Agatha, so do I. And wot's more, I know men."

"They're a poor lot, the kind you know. This pseudo Medcroft is not your kind. He's a very clever chap and a gentleman."

"Now, look here, Agatha, don't imagine that I'm going to be such a cad as to turn against 'em in their hour of trial. Not I. I'm more their friend than ever. I'll help 'em to get away from here, and I'll bulldose these Rodneys into holding their peace forever after. It's the Rodney duplicity that I can't stand."

"Shall we stay here or shall we find an excuse to leave?" she asked pointedly.

"We'll stay long enough for me to tell the Rodneys wot I think of 'em, I'll have an answer to my despatch by night. Then, I should advise you to have a talk with Mrs. Medcroft. You've invited her to the house, you know. Tell her there can't be two Medcrofts. See wot I mean? We'll see 'em through this, but—well, you understand."

Meantime a telegram had preceded a lengthy letter into the department of the police, both directed to Herr Bauer, who in reality was James Githens, of Scotland Yard. The telegram had said: "Why do you say M. is there? He is in London. Explain. Letter to-morrow." The letter had come, and Mr. Githens, as well as the local police office, was "bowled over," to express it in Scotland Yard English. He had wired his employers that "M. is still in Innsbruck. Cannot be in London." It was very clearly set forth in the letter that Roxbury Medcroft was in London, and that Mr. Githens, of Scotland Yard, had betrayed his trust. He was virtually charged with playing into the hands of the enemy,—"selling out," as it were. It readily may be expected that Mr. Githens was accused of being in the employ of the "opposition." Moreover, it is but reasonable to assume that he took vigorous steps at once to vindicate himself: which accounts for the woe that lurked close behind the heels of a man named Brock.

Brock and Constance had ridden off that afternoon to visit the historic Schloss Ambras. The great castle had been saved for the very last of their explorations; he had just been able to secure permission to visit that part of the Duke's residence open on certain occasions to the curious public. Edith had declined to accompany them. In the first place, she was expecting the all-important message from her husband—she was "on nettles," to quote her plaintive eagerness; in the second place, she realised that as the crisis was at hand in the affairs of Brock and Constance, her presence was not a necessary adjunct. Not only was she expecting a message from Roxbury, but eagerly anticipating an outburst of joyous news from the two who had, it seemed, very gladly left her behind.

The young couple, returning by the lower road from the Schloss, came to a resting place at a little eating-house and garden on the hillside overlooking the river Inn. It is a quiet, demure, unfrequented place among the crags, standing in from the white roadway a hundred feet or more, clouded by gorgeous trees and sombre cliffs. It was to this charming, romantic retreat that Brock led his fair, now tremulous inamorata. She, too, knew that the hour for decision had come; it was in the air, in the glint of his eyes, in the leaping of her heart. And she knew what she would say to him, and what they would say to the world a few hours hence. The mountains seemed to have lost their splendid frown; they were beaming down upon her, tenderly caressing instead of bleak and foreboding as they always had been before.

A rosy-cheeked girl came into the garden to serve them. Swift, cool breezes were scurrying down the valley, bearing in their wake the soft rain clouds that were soon to drench the earth and then radiantly pass on. They were quite alone, seated in the shelter of a wide, overhanging portico. A soft, green darkness was creeping over the mountainside, pregnant with smell of the shower.

Constance ordered tea and a bite of something to eat for both. Brock's gaze never left her exquisite face while she was engaged in the pretty but rather self-conscious occupation of instructing the waitress. After the girl had departed, he leaned forward across the little table and said, a trifle hoarsely and disjointedly,—

"It was most appetising to watch you do that. I could live forever on nothing but tea and sandwiches if you were to order them."

"You've said a great many silly things to me this afternoon."

"I wonder—" he stopped and lowered his voice—"I wonder if you would call it silly if I were to tell you that I love you, very, very much." His gloved hand dropped upon hers as she fumbled aimlessly with the menu card; something in the very helplessness of that long slim hand drew the strength of all his love toward it—all of this confident, arrogant love that had come to be so sure of itself in these last days. His grey eyes, dark with the purpose of his passion, took on a new and impelling glow; she looked into them for an instant, the wavering smile of last resort on her parted lips; then her lids dropped quickly and her lip trembled.

"I should still think you very silly," she said in a very low voice, "unless—unless you do love me."

His fingers closed so tightly upon hers that she looked up, her eyes swimming with tenderness. Neither spoke for a long minute, but words were not needed to tell what the soul was saying through the eyes.

"I do love you—you know I do, Connie. I've loved you from the first day. I cannot live without you, Connie, darling, you won't keep me waiting? You will be my wife—you will marry me at once? You do love me, I know—I've known it for days and days—"

She whimsically broke in upon his passionate declaration, saying with a pretty petulance: "Oh, you have? What insufferable conceit! I—"

He laughed joyously. "I never was so sure of anything in my life," he said. "You couldn't help loving me, Constance; I've loved you so. You don't have to tell me, dear; I know. Still, I'd like to hear you say, with those dear lips as well as with your eyes, that you love me."

She put her hand upon the back of the broad one which held the other imprisoned; there was a proud, earnest light in her eyes. "I do love you," she said simply.

"God, but I'm a happy man," he exulted. Forgetful of the time and the place, he half arose and, leaning forward, kissed her full upon the upturned lips.

There was a rattling of chinaware behind them. In no little confusion both came tumbling down from Paradise, and found themselves under the abashed scrutiny of a very red-faced young serving-woman.

"Oh, never mind," stammered Gretchen quite amiably. "I am used to that, madame. A great many ladies and gentlemen come here to—to—what you call it?" She placed the tea and sandwiches before them, her fingers all thumbs, her cheeks aglow.

Brock pulled himself together. Very sternly he said: "This young lady is to be my wife."

"Ach," said Gretchen, with a friendly smile and the utmost deference, "that is what they all say, mein Herr." Then, giggling approvingly, she bustled away.

Brock waited until she was out of sight. "She seems to be onto us, as Freddie would say. But what do we care? I'd like to stand on top of the Bandjoch and shout the news to the world. Wouldn't you, dearest?"

"The world wouldn't hear us, dear," she said coolly. "Besides, it's raining up there. Just look at it sweeping down upon us! Goodness!"

He laughed hilariously, amused by her attempt to be casual and indifferent. "You can't turn it off so easily as that, dearest," he cried. "Come! While it rains we may plan. You will marry me—to-morrow?"

"No!" she cried, aghast. "How utterly ridiculous!"

"Well, then, day after to-morrow?"

"No, no—nor week after next. I—"

"See here, Connie, we've got some one else to consider as well as ourselves. In order to square it all up for Edith, we must be able to say to these people that we haven't been frivolling—that we are going to be married at once. That will let Edith out of the difficulty, and everything will look rosy at the outset. If we put it off, the world will have said things in its ignorance that she can never refute, simply because the world doesn't stop long enough to hear two sides of a story unless they are given pretty closely together. Now Edith is counting on us to put the peeping-Tom Rodneys and the charitable Carneys to rout with our own little bombshell. They're saying nasty things about all of us. They're calling you a vile thing for stealing your sister's husband, and they're calling me a dog for what I'm doing. No telling what they'll be saying if we don't step into the breach as soon as it is opened. We can't afford to wait, no matter what Roxbury says when he comes. We've just got to be able to forestall even dear old Roxbury. Come! Don't you see? We must be married at once."



"Dear me," she murmured softly, "what will papa say?"

"My dear Constance, I will explain it all to your father when he gets back from South America next winter."

It was now raining in torrents. They moved back into the darkest recess of their shelter, and blissfully looked out upon the drenched universe with eyes that saw nothing but sweet sunshine and fair weather.

The clattering of horses' hoofs upon the hard mountain road sounded suddenly above the hiss of the rain-storm. It was quite dark by this time, night having been hurried on by the lowering skies. A moment later, three horsemen, drenched to the skin, drew up in front of the inn, threw their reins over the posts, and dashed for shelter. They came noisily into the arbour, growling and stamping their soggy feet.

"What, ho!" called one of the newcomers, sticking his head through a window of the house. Brock and Miss Fowler looked on, amused by the plight of the riders. Two of them were unquestionably officers of the police; the third seemed to be an Englishman. They were gruff, burly fellows, all of them. For a few minutes they stormed and growled about their miserable luck in being caught in the downpour, ordering schnapps and brandy in large and instant quantities. At last the Englishman, a heavy, sour-faced man, turned his gaze in the direction of the lovers, who sat quite close together in the dark corner. His gaze developed into a stare, then a look of triumph. A moment later he was pointing out the couple to his companions, all three peering at them with excited eyes.

Brock's face went red under the rude stare; he was on the point of resenting it when the Englishman stepped forward. The American arose at once.

"I've been looking for you, Mr. Medcroft—if that is your name," said the stranger, halting in front of the table. "My name is Githens, Scotland Yard. These men have an order for your arrest. I'd advise you to go with them peaceably. The young woman will not be bothered. She is free to go."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Brock angrily. Suddenly he felt a chill of misgiving. What had Roxbury Medcroft been doing that he should be subject to arrest?

"You are masquerading here as Roxbury Medcroft the architect. You are not Medcroft. I have watched you for weeks. To-day we have learned that Medcroft is in London. Your linen is marked with a letter B. You've drawn money on a letter of credit together with a woman who signs herself as Edith F. Medcroft. There is something wrong with you, Mr. B., and these officers, acting for the hotel and the State Bank, have been instructed to detain you pending an investigation."

Mr. Githens was vindicating himself. He may have been a trifle disconcerted by Miss Fowler's musical laugh and Brock's plain guffaw, but he managed to preserve a stiff dignity. "It's no laughing matter. Officers, this is your man. Take him in charge. Madam, as I understand it, you are the alleged sister of the woman who is working herself off as Mrs. Medcroft. It may interest you to know that your sister—if she is your sister—has locked herself in her room and was in hysterics when I left the hotel. She will be carefully guarded, however. She cannot escape. As for you, madam, there is as yet no complaint against you, but I wish to notify you that you may consider yourself under surveillance until after your friends have had a hearing before the magistrate to-morrow. As soon as it has ceased raining we will ask you to ride with us to the city. As for Mr. B., he is in charge of these officers."

At eight o'clock that evening a solemn cavalcade rode into Innsbruck. There were tears of expostulation in the eyes of the lone young woman, flashes of indignation in those of the tall young man who rode beside her.

The tall young man was going to gaol!



CHAPTER VII

THE THREE GUARDIANS

The anti-climax had struck the Hotel Tirol some hours before it came upon Brock and Miss Fowler. It seems that Githens had gone first to the big hostelry in quest of light on the very puzzling dilemma in which he found himself involved. Inquiries at the office only served to stir up a grave commotion among the clerks and managers, all of whom vociferously maintained that the hotel was entirely blameless if any deception had been practised. The Tirol did not tolerate anything that savoured of the scandalous; the Tirol was a respectable house; the Tirol was ever careful, always rigid in the protection of its good name; and so on and so forth at great length and with great precision. But Mr. Githens had two officers with him, and he demanded the person of the man calling himself Roxbury Medcroft. The principal bank in the city was also represented in the company of investigators. Likewise there was a laconic gentleman from the British office.

Mr. Medcroft was out. Then, they agreed, it was necessary to see Mrs. Medcroft, or the lady representing herself to be such. Mr. Githens was permitted to go to her rooms in company with the manager of the hotel. What transpired in those rooms during the next fifteen minutes would be quite impossible to narrate short of an entire volume. Edith promptly collapsed. Subsequently she became hysterical. She begged for time, and, getting it, proceeded to threaten every one with prosecution.

"I am Mrs. Medcroft!" she declared piteously. "Where is the American consul? I demand the American consul!"

"What has the American government to do with it?" gruffly demanded Mr. Githens.

"Mr.—Mr.—the gentleman whom you accuse is an American citizen!" she stammered.

"Oho! Then he is not an Englishman?"

"I refuse to answer your questions. You are impertinent. I ask you, sir, as the manager of this hotel, to eject this man from my rooms." The manager smiled blandly and did not eject the man.

"But, madam," he said, "we have a right to know who and what you are. If Mr. Medcroft is in London, this gentleman surely cannot be he, the real Mr. Medcroft. We must have an explanation."

"I'll—I will explain everything to-morrow. Oh, by the way, is there a telegram for me in the office? There must be. I've been expecting it all day. I telegraphed to London for it."

"There is no telegram down there, madam."

At this juncture Mr. Odell-Carney appeared on the scene, uninvited but welcome.

"Wot's all this?" he demanded sternly. Everybody proceeded at once to tell him. Somehow he got the drift of the story. "Get out—all of you!" he said. "I stand sponsor for Mrs. Medcroft. She is Mrs. Medcroft, hang you, sir. If you come around here bothering her again, I'll have the law upon you. The Medcrofts are English citizens and—"

"Oh, they are, are they?" sneered Mr. Githens, with a sinister chuckle.

"Who the devil are you, sir?"

"I'm from Scotland Yard."

"I thought so. You've proved it, 'pon my soul. I am Odell-Carney. Daresay you've heard of me."

"I know you by sight, sir. But that—"

"Clever chap, by Jove! And there's no but about it. Mr.—Mr.—never mind what it is. I don't want to know your name. Mrs. Medcroft, will you permit me to send my wife up to you? Mr. Manager, I insist that you take this c'nfended rabble down to the office and tell them to go to the devil? Don't do it up here; do it down there."

After some further discussion and protest, the Scotland Yard man and his party left the room to its distracted mistress. It may be well to remark, for the sake of local colour, that Tootles was crying lustily, while Raggles barked in spite of all that O'Brien could do to stop him.

Odell-Carney sent his wife to Edith. A few minutes later, as he was making his way to the office, he came upon Mrs. Rodney and Katherine, hurrying, white-faced, to their rooms.

"Oh, isn't it dreadful?" wailed the former, putting her clenched hands to her temples.

"Isn't wot dreadful?" demanded he brutally.

"About Edith! They're going to arrest her."

"Not if I can help it, madam. Where is Mr. Rodney?"

"He hasn't anything to do with it! We're as innocent as children unborn. It's all shocking to us. Mr. Rodney shouldn't be arrested. His rectitude is without a flaw. For heaven's sake, don't implicate him. He's—"

"Madam, I am not a policeman," said Odell-Carney with scathing dignity. "I want your husband to aid me in hushing this c'nfended thing."

"He shan't do it! I won't permit him to be mixed up in it," almost screamed Mrs. Rodney. "I've just heard that he isn't a husband at all. It's atrocious!"

"Bless me, Mrs. Rodney," roared Odell-Carney, "then you oughtn't to be living with him if he isn't your husband. You're as bad as— Hi, look out, there! Don't do that!" Mrs. Rodney had collapsed into her daughter's arms, gasping for breath.

"She's all upset, Mr. Odell-Carney," said Katherine, shaking her mother soundly. "It's just nerves. If you see papa, send him to us. We must take the first train for—for anywhere. Will you tell Mrs. Odell-Carney that if she'll get ready at once, papa will see to the tickets."

"Tickets? But, my dear young lady, we're not going anywhere. We're going to stay here and see your cousin out of her troubles. My wife is with her now."

He started away as Mr. Rodney came puffing up the stairs. Odell-Carney changed his mind and waited.

"Where's Edith?" panted Mr. Rodney.

"Good heavens!" groaned his wife, lowering her voice because three chambermaids were looking on from a near-by turn. "Don't mention that creature's name. Just think what she's got us into. He isn't her husband. Alfred, telephone for tickets on to-night's train. To-morrow will be too late. I won't stay here another minute. Everybody in the hotel is talking. We'll all be arrested."

But Mr. Rodney, for once, was the head of the family. He faced her sternly.

"Go to your rooms, both of you. We'll stay here until this thing is ended. I don't give a hang what she's done, I'm not going to desert her."

"But—but he isn't her husband," gasped Mrs. Rodney, struck dumb by this amazing rebellion.

"But she's your cousin, isn't she, madam?" he retorted with fierce irony.

"I disown her!" wailed his wife, sans raison.

"Go to your rooms!" stormed pudgy Mr. Rodney. Then, as they slunk away, he turned to the approving Odell-Carney, sticking out his chest a trifle in his new-found authority. "I say, Carney, what's to be done next?"

The other looked at him for a moment as if in doubt. Then his face cleared, and he took the little man's arm in his.

"We'll have a drink first and then see," he said.

As they were entering the buffet, a cheery voice accosted them from behind. Freddie Ulstervelt came up, real distress in his face.

"I say, count me in on this. I'll buy, if I may. I've just heard the news from the door porter. Bloody shame, isn't it? I had Mademoiselle Le Brun over to hear the band concert—she is related to that painter woman, by the way; I told Katherine she was. Say, gentlemen, we'll stand by Mrs. Medcroft, won't we? Count me in. If it's anything that money can square, I'm here with a letter of credit six figures long."

"Join us," said Odell-Carney warmly. "You're a good sort, after all."

They sat down at a table. Freddie stood between them, a hand on the shoulder of each. Very seriously he was saying:

"I say, gentlemen, we can't abandon a woman at a time like this. We must stand together. All true sports and black sheep should stand together, don't you know."

It is possible that Odell-Carney appreciated the subtlety of this compliment. Not so Mr. Rodney.

"Sports? Black sheep? Upon my soul, sir, I don't understand you," he mumbled. Mr. Rodney, although he hailed from Seattle, had never known anything but a clean and unrumpled conscience.

Freddie clapped him jovially on the shoulder. "It's all right, Mr. Rodney. I'll take your word for it. But if we are black sheep we shan't be blackguards. We'll stand by the ship. What's to be done? Bail 'em out?"

It is of record that the three gentlemen were closeted with the officers and managers for an hour or more, but it is not clear that they transacted anything that could seriously affect the situation.

Mrs. Medcroft, despite Mrs. Odell-Carney's friendly offices, refused point blank to discuss the situation. She did not dare to do or say anything as yet. Her husband had not telegraphed the word releasing her from the sorry compact. She loyally decided to stand by the agreement, no matter what the cost, until she received word from London that he had triumphed or failed in his brave fight against the "bloodsuckers."

"I will explain to-morrow, dear Mrs. Odell-Carney," she pleaded. "Don't press me now. Everything shall be all right. Oh, how I wish Constance were here! She understands. But she's off listening to silly love talk and doesn't even care what happens to me. Burton, will you be good enough to spank Tootles if she doesn't stop that screaming?"

By nine o'clock that night every one was discussing the significant disappearance of Constance Fowler and the fraudulent husband of Mrs. Medcroft. Just as Mr. Odell-Carney was preparing to announce to the unfortunate wife that the couple had eloped in the most cowardly fashion, Miss Fowler herself appeared on the scene, dishevelled, mud-spattered, and hot, but with a look of firm determination in her face. She strode defiantly through the main hall, ignoring the curious gaze of the loungers, whisking the skirt of her habit with disdainful abandon as she passed on to the lift. A few moments later she burst in upon her sister, a very angry young person indeed. The Odell-Carneys were down the hall discussing her strange defection; it was with no little relief that they saw her enter the room.

"Are we alone?" demanded Miss Fowler, not giving Edith time to proclaim her joy at seeing her. "Well, I've arranged a way to get him out," she went on, her lips set.

"Out?" murmured Mrs. Medcroft.

"Of course. We can't let him stay in there all night, Edith. How much money have you? Hurry up, please! Don't stare!"

"In where? Who's in where?"

"He's in gaol!" with supreme scorn. "Haven't you heard?"

Mrs. Medcroft began to cry. "Mr. Brock in gaol? Good heavens, what shall I do? I—I was depending on him so much. He ought to be here at this very instant. What has he been doing?"

"Edith Medcroft, stop sniffling, and don't think of yourself for a while. It will do you a great deal of good. Where's your money?"

Ruthlessly she began to rummage Edith's treasure trunk. The other came to her assistance after a dazed interval. The family purse came to light.

"I have a little over four thousand crowns," she murmured helplessly.

"Give it me, quick. There's no time to waste. I have about five thousand. It's all in notes, thank heaven. It isn't quite enough, but I'll try to make it do. Don't stop me, Edith. I haven't time to answer questions. He's in gaol, didn't you hear me say? And I love him!"

"But the—the money? Is it to bail him out with?"

"Bail? No, my dear, it's to buy him out with. 'Sh! Is there any one in that room? Well, then, I'll tell you something." The heads of the two sisters were quite close together. "He's in a cell at the—the prison-hof, or whatever you call it in German. It's gaol in English. I have arranged to bribe one of the gaolers—his guard. He will let him escape for ten thousand crowns—we must do it, Edith! Then Mr. Brock will ride over the Brenner Pass and catch a train somewhere, before his escape is discovered. I expect to meet him in Paris day after to-morrow. Have you heard from Roxbury?"

"No!" wailed Roxbury's wife.

"He's a brute!" stormed Miss Fowler.

"Constance!" flared Mrs. Medcroft, aghast at this sign of lese-majesty.

"Don't tell anybody," called Constance, as she banged the door behind her.

Soon after midnight a closely veiled lady drove up to a street corner adjacent to the city prison, a dolorous-looking building which loomed up still and menacing just ahead. She alighted and, dismissing the cab, strode off quickly into the side street. At a distant corner, in front of a crowded eating-house, two spirited horses, saddled and in charge of a grumbling stable-boy, champed noisily at their bits. The young woman exchanged a few rapid sentences with the boy, and then returned in the direction from which she came. A man stepped out of a doorway as she neared the corner, accosting her with a stealthy deference that proclaimed him to be anything but an unwelcome marauder.

The conversation which passed between the slender, nervous young woman and this burly individual was carried on in very cautious tones, accompanied by many quick and furtive glances in all directions, as if both were in fear of observers. At last, after eager pleading on one side and stolid expostulation on the other, a small package passed from the hand of the young woman into the huge paw of the man. The latter gave her a quick, cautious salute and hurried back toward the gaol.

The veiled young woman, very nervous and strangely agitated, made her way back to the spot where the horses were standing. Making her way through the cluster of small tables which lined the inner side of the sidewalk, she found one unoccupied at the extreme end, a position which commanded a view of the street down which she had just come.

Half an hour passed. Midnight revellers at the surrounding tables began to take notice of this tall, elegant, nervous young woman with the veiled face. It was plain to all of them that she was expecting someone; naturally it would be a man, therefore a lover. Her nervousness grew as the minutes lengthened into the hour. A clock in a tower near by struck one. She was now staring with wide, eager eyes down the street, alertly watching the approach of anyone who came from that direction. Twice she half arose and started forward with a quick sigh of relief, only to sink back again dejectedly upon discovering that she had been mistaken in the identity of a newcomer.

Half-past one, then two o'clock. The merry-makers were thinning out; she was quite alone at her end of the place. By this time a close observer might have noticed that she was trembling violently; there was an air of abject fear and despair in her manner.

Why did he not come? What had happened? Had the plot failed? Was he even now lying wounded unto death as the result of his effort to escape captivity? A hundred horrid thoughts raced through her throbbing, overwrought brain. He should have been with her two hours ago—he should now be far on his way to freedom. Alas, something appalling had happened, she was sure of it.

At last there hove in sight, coming from the direction in which lay the prison, a group of three men. It was a jaunty party, evidently under the influence of many libations. They came with arms linked, with dignified but unsteady gait, their hats well back on their heads. In the middle was a very tall man, flanked on one side by a very short fat one, on the other by a slender youth who wanted to sing.

She recognised them and would have drawn back to a less exposed spot, but the slender youth saw her before she could do so. He shouted to his companions as if they were two blocks away.

"There she is! Hooray!"

They bore down upon her. The next instant they were solemnly shaking hands with her, much to her dismay.

"Cons'ance, we've been lookin' f-fer you ever'-where in town. W-where on earth 've you been?" asked Mr. Rodney thickly, with a laudable attempt at severity.

"Ever sinch 'leven o'clock, Conshance," supplemented Freddie, trying to frown.

"My dear Miss F-Fowler," began Odell-Carney in, his most suave manner, "it is after two o'clock. In—in the morning at that. You—you shouldn't be sittin' here all 'lone thish—this hour in the morning. Please come home with us. Your mother hash—has ask us to fetch you—I mean your sister. Beg pardon."

"I—I cannot go, gentlemen," she stammered. "Please don't insist—please don't ask why. I cannot go—"

"I shay, Conshance, by Jove, the joke's on you," exclaimed Freddie. "I know who 't ish you're waitin' f-for. Well, he can't come. He's locked in."

"Freddie, you are drunk!" in deep scorn.

"I know it," he admitted cheerfully. "We've looked ever'where for you. We're your frien's. He said it was at 'n eatin'-house. We've been ever' eatin'-house in Inchbrook. Was here first of all. Leave it to Rodney. Wassen we, Rodney? You bet we was. You wassen here at 'leven o'clock. Come on home, Conshance. 'S all right. He's safe. He can't come."

"But he will come, unless something terrible has happened to him," she almost sobbed in her desperation. "Cousin Alfred, won't you go to the gaol and see what has happened?"

Mr. Rodney took off his hat gallantly and would have gone to do her bidding had not Mr. Odell-Carney laid a restraining grip upon his shoulder.

"Let me explain, Miss F-Fowler. You shee—see, he told us you'd be here, but, hang it all, you wassen here wh-when we came. Never give up, says I to my frien's. We'll search till doomshday. I knew we'd find you if we kep' on searching. Thash jus' wot I said to Roddy, didn' I, Roddy? We mush have overlokked yo' when we were here at 'leven."

"I was not here at eleven," she cried breathlessly.

"Thash jus' what I tol' 'em," insisted Freddie triumphantly. "I saysh: 'What's use lookin' here? She—she isn't on top of any these tables,' an' I—I knew you wassen unner 'em. You ain't—"

"Permit me," interrupted Odell-Carney with grave dignity. "Your friend, Miss Fowler, is not in gaol. He is out—"

"Not in gaol!" she almost shrieked. "I knew it! I knew it could not go wrong. But where is he?"

"He's out on bail. We bailed him out at half-past ten—Wot!" She had leaped to her feet with a short scream and was clutching his arm frantically.

"On bail? At half-past ten? Good heavens, then—then—oh, are you sure?"

"Poshtive, abs'lutely."

"Then what has become of my nine thousand crowns?"

"You c'n search me, Conshance," murmured Freddie.

"I don' know what you 're talkin' 'bout, Cons'ance," said Mr. Rodney in a very hurt tone. "We—we put up security f'r five thous'n dollars, that's what we did. This is all the thanks we getsh for it. Ungrachful!"

Constance had been thinking very hard, paying no heed to his maudlin defence. It rapidly was dawning upon her that these men had secured her lover's release on bail at half-past ten o'clock, an hour and a half before she had given her bribe of nine thousand crowns to the gaoler. That being the case, it was becoming clear to her that the wretch deliberately had taken the money, knowing that Brock was not in the prison, and with the plain design to rob her of the amount. It was a transaction in which he could be perfectly secure; bribing of public officials is a solemn offence in Austria and Germany. She could have no recourse, could make no complaint. Her money was gone!

"Where is Mr. Br—Mr. Medcroft?" she demanded, her voice full of anxiety. If he were out of gaol, why had he failed to come to the meeting-place?

"He's locked in," persisted Freddie.

"That's just it, Miss Fowler," explained Odell-Carney glibly. "You shee—see, it was this way: we got him out on bail on condition he'd 'pear to-morrow morning 'fore the magistrate. Affer we'd got him out, he insisted on coming 'round here so's he could run away with you. That wassen a gennelmanly thing to do, affer we'd put up our money. We coul'n' afford have him runnin' away with you. So we had him locked in a room on top floor of the hotel, where he can't get out 'n' leave us to hold the bag, don't you see. He almos' cried an' said you'd be waitin' at the church or—or something like that bally song, don't you know, an' as a lash reshort, to keep him quiet like a good ferrer—feller, we said we'd come an' get you an' 'splain everything saffis—sasfac—ahem! sassisfac'rly."

She looked at then with burning eyes. Slow rage was coming to the flaming point; And for this she had sat and suffered for hours in a street restaurant! For this! Her eyes fell upon the limp horses and the dejected stable-boy. Two hours!

"You will release him at once!" she stormed. "Do you hear? It is outrageous!"

Without another word to the dazed trio, she rushed to the curb and commanded the boy to assist her into the saddle. He did so, in stupid amazement. Then she instructed him to mount and follow her to the Tirol as fast as he could ride. The horses were tearing off in the darkness a moment later.

The three guardians stood speechless until the clatter died away in the distance. Then Mr. Rodney pulled himself together with an effort and groaned in abject horror.

"By thunner, the damn girl is stealin' somebody's horshes!"



CHAPTER VIII

THE PRODIGAL HUSBAND

The unlucky Brock, wild with rage and chagrin, had paced his temporary prison in the top storey of the Tirol from eleven o'clock till two, bitterly cursing the fools who were keeping him in durance more vile than that from which they had generously released him. He realised that it would be unwise to create a disturbance in the house by clamouring for freedom, because, in the first place, there already had been scandal enough, and in the second place, his distrustful bondsmen had promised faithfully to seek out the devoted Connie and apprise her of his release. He had no thought, of course, that in the mean time she might be duped into paying a bribe to the guard.

Not only was he direfully cursing the trio, but also the addlepated Medcroft and his own addlepated self. It is to be feared that he had harsh thoughts of all the Medcrofts, as far down as Raggles. His dream of love and happiness had turned into a nightmare; the comedy had become a tragic snarl of all the effects known to melodrama. Bitterly he lamented the fact that now he could not go before the assembled critics in the morning and proclaim to them that Constance was his wife. From this, it readily may be judged that Brock was not familiar with all the details of the vigorous Miss Fowler's plan. As a matter of fact, he did not know that he was expected to fly the country like a fugitive. She had known in her heart that he would never agree to a plan of that sort; it was, therefore, necessary for her to deceive him in more ways than one. Plainly speaking, Brock had laboured under the delusion that she merely proposed to bribe the gaoler into letting him off for the night, in order that by some hook or crook they could be married early in the morning—provided her conception of the State marriage laws as they applied to aliens was absolutely correct. (It was not correct, it may be well to state, although that has nothing to do with the case at this moment.) If he had but known that she contemplated paying ten thousand crowns for his surreptitious release, making herself criminally liable, and that he was expected to catch a night train across the border, it is only just to his manhood to say that he should have balked, even though the act were to cost him years of prison servitude—which, of course, was unlikely in the face of the explanation that would be made in proper time by the real Medcroft. It thus may be seen that Brock not only had been vilely imprisoned twice in the same night, but that he was very much in the dark, notwithstanding his attempt to make light of the situation.