Every one seemed to be staring at him.  He heard more than one American in the scurrying throng say to another, “English,” and he felt relieved until an Englishman or two upset his confidence by brutally alluding to him as a “confounded American toady.”

It was quite train time before Mrs. Medcroft was seen hurrying in from the carriage way, pursued by a trio of facteurs, laden with bags and boxes.

“Don’t shake hands,” she warned in a quick whisper, as they came together.  “I recognised you by the clothes.”

“Thank God, it wasn’t my face!” he cried.  “Are your trunks checked?”

“Yes,—­this afternoon.  I have nothing but the bags.  You have the tickets?  Then let us get aboard.  I just couldn’t get here earlier,” she whispered guiltily.  “We had to say good-by, you know.  Poor old Roxy!  How he hated it!  I sent Burton and O’Brien on ahead of me.  My sister brought them here in her carriage, and I daresay they’re aboard and abed by this time.  You didn’t see them?  But of course you wouldn’t know my maids.  How stupid of me!  Don’t be alarmed.  They have their instructions, Roxbury.  Doesn’t it sound odd to you?”

Brock was icy-cold with apprehension as they walked down the line of wagon-lits in the wake of the bag-bearers.  Mrs. Medcroft was as self-possessed and as degage as he was ill at ease and awkward.  As they ascended the steps of the carriage, she turned back to him and said, with the most malicious twinkle in her eyes,—­

“I’m not a bit nervous.”

“But you’ve been married so much longer than I have,” he responded.

Then came the disposition of the bags and parcels.  She calmly directed the porters to put the overflow into the upper berth.  The garde came up to remonstrate in his most rapid French.

“But where is M’sieur to sleep if the bags go up there?” he argued.

Mrs. Medcroft dropped her toilet bag and turned to Brock with startled eyes, her lips parted.  He was standing in the passage, his two bags at his feet, an aroused gleam in his eyes.  A deep flush overspread her face; an expression of utter rout succeeded the buoyancy of the moment before.

“Really,” she murmured and could go no farther.  The loveliest pucker came into her face.  Brock waved the garde aside.

“It’s all right,” he explained.  “I shan’t occupy the—­I mean, I’ll take one of the other compartments.”  As the garde opened his lips to protest, she drew Brock inside the compartment and closed the door.  Mrs. Medcroft was agitated.

“Oh, what a wretched contretemps!” she cried in despair.  “Roxy has made a frightful mess of it, after all.  He has not taken a compartment for you.  I’m—­I’m afraid you’ll have to take this one and—­and let me go in with—­”

“Nonsense!” he broke in.  “Nothing of the sort!  I’ll find a bed, never fear.  I daresay there’s plenty of room on the train.  You shan’t sleep with the servants.  And don’t lie awake blaming poor old Rox.  He’s lonesome and unhappy, and he—­”