“Good Gawd!” gasped Odell-Carney.  “Wot’s all this?” His wife suddenly began fanning herself, searching for breath.

“This is my husband!” cried Edith, triumph in her voice, tears in her eyes, as she faced the astonished observers.  “Now, what have you to say?”

It was a perfectly natural but not an especially obvious question.  The little manager threw up his hands and cried out in a sad mixture of French, English and Helvetian,—­

“What?  Another husband?  Madam, how many more do you propose to inflict us with?  We cannot allow it!  The management will not permit you to change husbands the instant a new guest arrives in the house.  It is not to be heard of—­no, no!”

“Are you afraid that the books won’t balance?” asked Brock with a joyous grin, a great load off his heart.  “Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to introduce Mr. Roxbury Medcroft, my friend and fellow conspirator.  He is the husband of this lady, not I. I am to be the husband of this lady, thank God.”

There was a moment of absolute silence—­it may have been stupor.  The two audiences faced each other with emotions widely at variance.  It was Mrs. Rodney who spoke first.

“Is this true, Edith?” she quavered.

“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Edith, her eyes dancing.

“Then, what are you doing here with a man who isn’t your husband?” demanded Mrs. Rodney, suddenly aflame.

“I can explain everything to you later on, Mrs. Rodney,” interposed Mrs. Odell-Carney calmly.  She had divined at least a portion of the truth, and she was clever enough to put herself on the right side.  Edith cast an involuntary look of surprise at the Englishwoman.  “I have known everything from the first.  Mrs. Medcroft and I are closer friends than you may have thought.”  She gave Edith a meaning look, and a moment later was whispering to her in a private corner of the private office:  “My dear, I don’t know what it means, but you must tell me everything as soon as possible.  I am your friend.  Whatever it all is, it’s ripping!”

There was a great deal of pow-wowing and chatter, charges and refutations, excuses and explanations.  Mr. Medcroft finally waved every one aside in the most degage manner imaginable.

“Don’t crowd me!  Hang it all, I’m not a curiosity.  There isn’t anything to go crazy about.  My friend, Mr. Brock, has just done me a trifling favour.  That’s all.  The whole story will be in the London papers this morning.  Buy ’em.  I’m going up to my wife’s room to see my baby.  I’ll come down and explain everything when I’ve had a bit of a breathing spell.  It’s annoying to have had this fuss about a simple little matter of generosity on the part of my friend, who, I’ve no doubt, has been a most exemplary husband.  I’ll see to it, by Gad, that he receives the proper apologies.  And, for that matter, my wife may have something to say about the outrage that has been perpetrated.”