“It’s me—­Rodney.  Get up.  I want to see Medcroft.  Say, Roxbury, wake up!”

“Roxbury?” came in shrill tones from within.  “He—­Isn’t he upstairs?  Good heaven, Mr. Rodney, what has happened?  What has happened?”

“Upstairs?  What the deuce is he doing upstairs?"’

“He’s—­he’s sleeping!  Do tell me what’s the matter?”

“Isn’t this Mr. Medcroft’s room?”

“Ye-es—­but he isn’t in.  He objects to the noise.  Oh, has anything happened to Roxbury?” She was standing just inside the door, and her voice betrayed agitation.

“My dear Edith, don’t get excited.  I have a telegram from—­”

She uttered a shriek.

“He’s been assassinated!  Oh, Roxbury!”

“What the dev—­Are you crazy?  It’s a telegram from ——­”

“Oh, heavens!  I knew they’d kill him—­I knew something dreadful would happen if I left—­” Here she stopped suddenly.  He distinctly heard her catch her breath.  After a moment she went on warily:  “Is it from a man named Hobart?”

“No!  It’s from Odell-Carney.  Hobart?  I don’t know anybody named Hobart.”  (How was he to know that Hobart was the name that Medcroft had chosen for correspondence purposes?) “We’re to meet the Odell-Carneys to-day in Munich.  No time to be lost.  We’ve got to catch the nine o’clock train.”

“Oh!” came in great relief from the other side of the door.  Then, in sudden dismay:  “But I can’t do it!  The idea of getting up at an hour like this!”

“What room is Roxbury in?”

“I—­don’t KNOW!!” in very decided tones.  “Inquire at the office!”

Alfred Rodney was a persevering man.  It is barely possible that he occupied a lower social plane than that attained by his wife, but he was a man of accomplishment, if not accomplishments.  He always did what he set out to do.  Be it said in defence of this assertion, he not only routed out his entire protesting flock, but had them at the West-Bahnhof in time to catch the Orient Express—­luggage, accessories, and all.  Be it also said that he was the only one in the party, save Constance and Tootles, who took to the situation amiably.

“Damn the Odell-Carneys,” was what Freddie Ulstervelt said as the train drew out of the station.  Brock looked up approvingly.

“That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard him say,” he muttered loud enough to be heard by Miss Fowler.  “I say, who are the Odell-Carneys?  First I’ve heard of ’em.”

“The Odell-Carneys?  Oh, dear, have you never heard of them?” she cried in surprise.  He felt properly rebuked.  “They are very swell Londoners.  It is said—­”

“Then, good heavens, they’ll know I’m not Medcroft,” he whispered in alarm.