“What, ho!” called one of the newcomers, sticking his head through a window of the house.  Brock and Miss Fowler looked on, amused by the plight of the riders.  Two of them were unquestionably officers of the police; the third seemed to be an Englishman.  They were gruff, burly fellows, all of them.  For a few minutes they stormed and growled about their miserable luck in being caught in the downpour, ordering schnapps and brandy in large and instant quantities.  At last the Englishman, a heavy, sour-faced man, turned his gaze in the direction of the lovers, who sat quite close together in the dark corner.  His gaze developed into a stare, then a look of triumph.  A moment later he was pointing out the couple to his companions, all three peering at them with excited eyes.

Brock’s face went red under the rude stare; he was on the point of resenting it when the Englishman stepped forward.  The American arose at once.

“I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Medcroft—­if that is your name,” said the stranger, halting in front of the table.  “My name is Githens, Scotland Yard.  These men have an order for your arrest.  I’d advise you to go with them peaceably.  The young woman will not be bothered.  She is free to go.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Brock angrily.  Suddenly he felt a chill of misgiving.  What had Roxbury Medcroft been doing that he should be subject to arrest?

“You are masquerading here as Roxbury Medcroft the architect.  You are not Medcroft.  I have watched you for weeks.  To-day we have learned that Medcroft is in London.  Your linen is marked with a letter B. You’ve drawn money on a letter of credit together with a woman who signs herself as Edith F. Medcroft.  There is something wrong with you, Mr. B., and these officers, acting for the hotel and the State Bank, have been instructed to detain you pending an investigation.”

Mr. Githens was vindicating himself.  He may have been a trifle disconcerted by Miss Fowler’s musical laugh and Brock’s plain guffaw, but he managed to preserve a stiff dignity.  “It’s no laughing matter.  Officers, this is your man.  Take him in charge.  Madam, as I understand it, you are the alleged sister of the woman who is working herself off as Mrs. Medcroft.  It may interest you to know that your sister—­if she is your sister—­has locked herself in her room and was in hysterics when I left the hotel.  She will be carefully guarded, however.  She cannot escape.  As for you, madam, there is as yet no complaint against you, but I wish to notify you that you may consider yourself under surveillance until after your friends have had a hearing before the magistrate to-morrow.  As soon as it has ceased raining we will ask you to ride with us to the city.  As for Mr. B., he is in charge of these officers.”

At eight o’clock that evening a solemn cavalcade rode into Innsbruck.  There were tears of expostulation in the eyes of the lone young woman, flashes of indignation in those of the tall young man who rode beside her.