“’Pon me word,” he kept repeating to himself feebly.  Then he got up and went off in extreme haste to find his wife.

“My dear,” he said to her in the carriage-way, “I must speak with you alone.”  She was just starting off for a drive with Mrs. Rodney.

“Bad news, Carney?” she demanded, struck by his expression.  She was following him toward a remote corner of the approach.  He did not reply until they were seated, much nearer to each other than was their wont.

“Read that,” he said, slipping the Standard into her hands.  “Wot do you think of it?”

“My dear Carney, I don’t know.  Would you mind telling me what I am to read?”

“The Medcroft thing.  Right there.”

She read the article, her husband watching her face the while.  Surprise, incredulity, dismay, succeeded each other in rapid changes.  She was reading in sheer amazement of the doings of Roxbury Medcroft in connection with the County Council’s sub-committee—­in London!  The story went on to relate how Medcroft, implacable leader of the opposition to the “grafters,” suddenly had appeared before the committee with the most astounding figures and facts to support his charges of rottenness on the part of the “clique”; his unexpected descent upon the scene had thrown the opposing leaders into a panic; every one had been led to believe that he was sojourning in the east.  As a matter of fact, it was soon revealed, he had been in London, secretly working on the problem, for nearly three weeks, keeping discreetly under cover in order that his influence might not be thwarted.  His array of facts, his bitter arraignment of the men who were trying to force the building bill through the Council, staggered the whole city of London.  At that writing it looked as though the bill would be overthrown, its promoters had been so completely put to rout.  The committee would be compelled to take cognisance of the startling exposure—­the people would demand a full threshing out of the obnoxious deal.  Roxbury Medcroft’s name was on every one’s lips.  The Standard had profited by securing a great “beat.”

The Odell-Carneys looked at each other in wonder and perplexity.  “What does it mean?” asked the lady, her eyes narrowing.

“Look here, Agatha, this paper’s at least two days old.  Now, how the devil can Medcroft be in London and Innsbruck at the same time.  He was here day before yesterday, wasn’t he?  I’m so c’nfended unobserving—­”

“Yes, yes, he was here.  And this paper—­” She paused irresolutely.

“Says he was there.  ’Pon my word, it’s most uncanny.  There’s some mystery here.”

“I’ve got it, Carney!  This is not Roxbury Medcroft.”

“Good Gawd!”

“This explains everything.  Heavens, Carney!  This fellow is—­is her lover!  She’s running about the country with him.  She’s—­”

“Her lover?  ’Gad, my dear, he may have been so at one time, but he’s the other one’s lover now, take my word for it.  I say, ’pon my soul, this is a charming game your friends the Rodneys have let us into.  They—­”