He was congratulating himself on the acquisition of a bed—­although it might possess the odour of a bed of tuberoses—­when all of his pleasant calculations were upset by the appearance of a German burgher and his family.  It was then that he learned that these people had booked le compartement from Strassburg to Munich.

Brock resumed his window-seat and despondently awaited the call to breakfast.  He fell sound asleep with his monocle in position; nor did it matter to him that his hat dropped through the window and went scuttling off across the green Rhenish fields.  When next he looked at his watch, it was eight o’clock.  A small boy was standing at the end of the passage, staring wide-eyed at him.  Two little girls came piling, half dressed, from a compartment, evidently in response to the youngster’s whispered command to hurry out and see the funny man.  Brock scowled darkly, and the trio darted swiftly into the compartment.

He dragged his stiff legs into the dining-car at Stuttgart and shoved them under a table.  The car was quite empty.  As he was staring blankly at the menu, the conducteur from his car hurried in with the word that Madame would not breakfast until nine.  She was still very sleepy.  Would Monsieur Medcroft be good enough to order her coffee and rolls brought to her compartment at that hour?  And would he mind seeing that the maid saw to it that Raggles surely had his biscuit and a walk at the next station?

“Raggles?” queried Brock, passing his hand over his brow.  The other shrugged his shoulders and looked askance.  “Oh, yes,—­I—­understand,” murmured the puzzled one, recovering himself.  For the next ten minutes he wondered who Raggles could be.

He had eaten his strawberries and was waiting for the eggs and coffee, resentfully eying the early risers who were now coming in for their coffee and rolls.  They had slept—­he could tell by the complacent manner in which their hair was combed and by the interest they found in the scenery which he had come, by tedious familiarity, to loathe and scorn.

The actions of two young women near the door attracted his attention.  From their actions he suddenly gathered that they were discussing him,—­and in a more or less facetious fashion, at that.  They whispered and looked shy and grinned in a most disconcerting manner.  He turned red about the ears and began to wonder, fiercely, why his eggs and coffee were so slow in coming.  Then, to his consternation, the young women, plainly of the serving-class, bore down upon him with abashed smiles.  He noticed for the first time that one of them was carrying a very small child in her arms; as she came alongside, grinning sheepishly, she extended the small one toward the astounded Brock, and said in excellent old English: 

[Illustration:  Brock]

“Good morning, Mr. Medcroft.”  Then, with a rare inspiration, “Baby, kiss papa—­come, now.”