of credit is at your disposal, old man," said Brock promptly.
He meant it. It readily may be seen from this that their friendship is
no small item to be considered in the development of this tale.

"My dear fellow, that's the very thing I'm eager to thrust upon you--my
letter of credit," exclaimed the other.

"What's that?" demanded Brock.

"I say, Brock, can't we go up to your rooms? Dead secret, you know.
Really, old chap, I mean it. No one must get a breath of it. That's why
I'm whispering. I'm not a lunatic, so don't stare like that. I'd do as
much for you if the conditions were reversed."

"I dare say you would, Rox, but what the devil is it you want me to do?"

"Do I appear to be agitated?"

"Well, I should say so."

"Well, I _am_. You know how I loathe asking a favour of anyone.
Besides, it's rather an extraordinary one I'm going to ask of you. Came
to me in a flash this morning when I saw your name in the paper. Sort of
inspiration, 'pon my word. I think Edith sees it the same as I, although
I haven't had time to go into it thoroughly with her. She's ripping, you
know; pluck to the very core."

Brock's face expressed bewilderment and perplexity.

"Won't you have another drink, old man?" he asked gently.

"Another? Hang it all, I haven't had one in a week. Come along. I must
talk it all over with you before I introduce you to her. You must be
prepared."

"Introduce me to whom?" demanded Brock, pricking up his ears. He was
following Medcroft to the elevator.

"To my wife--Edith," said Medcroft, annoyed by the other's obtuseness.

"Does it require preparation for an ordeal so charming?" laughed Brock.
He was recalling the fact that Medcroft had married a beautiful
Philadelphia girl some years ago in London, a young lady whom he had
never seen, so thoroughly expatriated had she become in consequence of
almost a lifetime residence in England. He remembered now that she was
rich and that he had sent her a ridiculously expensive present and a
congratulatory cablegram at the time of the wedding. Also, it occurred
to him that the Medcrofts had asked him to visit them at their
shooting-box for several seasons in succession, and that their town
house was always open to him. While he had not ignored the invitations,
he had never responded in person. He began to experience twinges of
remorse: Medcroft was such a good fellow!

The Londoner did not respond to the innocuous query. He merely stared
in a preoccup