When the garde came back with the lugubrious information that nothing, positively nothing, was to be had, it is painful to record that Brock swore in a manner which won the deepest respect of the trainman.

“At four o’clock in the morning, M’sieur, an old gentleman and his wife will get out at Strassburg, their destination.  They are in this carriage and you may take their compartment, if M’sieur will not object to sleeping in a room just vacated by two mourners who to-day buried a beloved son in Paris.  They have kept all of the flowers in their—­”

“Four o’clock!  Good Lord, what am I to do till then?” groaned Brock, glaring with unmanly hatred at the door of the Medcroft compartment.

“Perhaps Madame may be willing to take the upper—­” ventured the guard timorously, but Brock checked him with a peremptory gesture.  He proposed, instead, the luggage van, whereupon the guard burst into a psalm of utter dejection.  It was against the rules, irrevocably.

“Then I guess I’ll have to sit here all night,” said Brock faintly.  He was forgetting his English.

“If M’sieur will not occupy his own bed, yes,” said the guard, shrugging his shoulders and washing his hands of the whole incomprehensible affair.  “M’sieur will then be up to receive the Customs officers at the frontier.  Perhaps he will give me the keys to Madame’s trunks, so that she may not be disturbed.”

“Ask her for ’em yourself,” growled Brock, after one dazed moment of dismay.

The hours crawled slowly by.  He paced the length of the wriggling corridor a hundred times, back and forth; he sat on every window-seat in the carriage; he nodded and dozed and groaned, and laughed at himself in the deepest derision all through the dismal night.  Daylight came at four; he saw the sun rise for the first time in his life.  He neither enjoyed nor appreciated the novelty.  Never had he witnessed anything so mournfully depressing as the first grey tints that crept up to mock him in his vigil; never had he seen anything so ghastly as the soft red glow that suffused the morning sky.

“I’ll sleep all day if I ever get into that damned bed,” he said to himself, bitterly wistful.

The Customs officers had eyed him suspiciously at the border.  They evidently had been told of his strange madness in refusing to occupy the berth he had paid for.  Their examination of his effects was more thorough than usual.  It may have entered their heads that he was standing guard over the repose of a fair accomplice.  They asked so many embarrassing and disconcerting questions that he was devoutly relieved when they passed on, still suspicious.

The train was late, and at five o’clock he was desperately combating an impulse to leave it at Strassburg, find lodging in a hotel, and then, refreshed, set out for London to have it out with the malevolent Medcroft.  The disembarking of the venerable mourners, however, restored him to a degree of his peace of mind.  After all, he reviewed, it would be cowardly and base to desert a trusting wife; he pictured her as asleep and securely confident in his stanchness.  No:  he would have it out with Medcroft at some later day.