The Husbands of Edith | Page 2

in the least knowing
what it was all about. Monsieur's comfort must be preserved: that
seemed to be the issue in which, at once, all were united. "M'sieur will
pardon the boy," apologised Charles in deepest humility, taking much
for granted. "It will be very warm to-day. Your serviette, M'sieur--it is
damp. Pardon!" He flew away and back with another napkin. "Of
course, M'sieur, the Chatham is not the Waldorf," he announced
deprecatingly. "Parbleu," beating himself on the forehead, "I forgot!
M'sieur does not like the Waldorf. _Eh, bien_, Paris is not New York,
no." Having sufficiently humbled Paris, he withdrew into the
background, rubbing his hands as if he were cleansing them of
something unsightly. Brock spread one of the buttered biscuits with
honey and inwardly admitted that Paris was not New York.
He was a good-looking chap of thirty or thereabouts, an American to
the core,--bright-eyed, keen-witted, smooth-faced, virile. From
boyhood's earliest days he had spent a portion of his summers in
Europe. Two or three years of his life had been employed in the Beaux
Arts,--fruitful years, for Brock had not wasted his opportunities. He had
gone in for architecture and building. To-day he stood high among the
younger men in New York,--prosperous, successful, and a menace to
the old cry that a son of the rich cannot thrive in his father's domain.
Nowadays he came to the Old World for his breathing spells. He was
able to combine dawdling and development without sacrificing one for
the other, wherein lies the proof that his vacations were not akin to
those taken by most of us.
The fortnight in Paris was to be followed by a week in St. Petersburg
and a brief tour of Sweden and Norway. His stay in the gay city was

drawing to a close. That very morning he expected to book for St.
Petersburg, leaving in three days.
Suddenly his glance fell upon a name in the society column before him,
"Roxbury Medcroft." His face lighted up with genuine pleasure. An old
friend, a boon companion in bygone days, was this same Medcroft,--a
broad-minded, broad-gauged young Englishman who had profited by a
stay of some years in the States. They had studied together in Paris and
they had toiled together in New York. This is what he read: "Mr. and
Mrs. Roxbury Medcroft, of London, are stopping at the Ritz, en route
to Vienna. Mr. Medcroft will attend the meeting of Austrian Architects,
to be held there next week, and, with his wife, will afterwards spend a
fortnight in the German Alps, the guests of the Alfred Rodneys, of
Seattle."
"Dear old Rox, I must look him up at once," mused Brock. "The
Rodneys of Seattle? Never heard of 'em." He looked at his watch,
signed his check, deposited the usual franc, acknowledged Charles's
well-practised smile of thanks, and pushed back his chair, his gaze
travelling involuntarily toward the portals of the American bar across
the court, just beyond the _concierge's_ quarters. Simultaneously a tall
figure emerged from the bar, casting eager glances in all directions,--a
tall figure in a checked suit, bowler hat, white reindeer gloves, high
collar, and grey spats. Brock came to his feet quickly. The monocle
dropped from the other's eye, and his long legs carried him eagerly
toward the American.
"Medcroft! Bless your heart! I was just on the point of looking you up
at the Ritz. It's good to see you," Brock cried as they clasped hands.
"Of all the men and of all the times, Brock, you are the most
opportune," exclaimed the other. "I saw that you were here and bolted
my breakfast to catch you. These beastly telephones never work. Oh, I
say, old man, have you finished yours?"
"Quite--but luckily I didn't have to bolt it. You're off for Vienna, I see.
Sit down, Rox. Won't you have another egg and a cup of coffee? Do!"

"Thanks and no to everything you suggest. Wot you doing for the next
half-hour or so? I'm in a deuce of a dilemma and you've got to help me
out of it." The Englishman looked at his watch and fumbled it
nervously as he replaced it in his upper coat pocket. "That's a good
fellow, Brock. You will be the ever present help in time of trouble,
won't you?"
"My letter 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