She had grasped the full humour of the situation, from inception to denouement, and, to all appearance, was heart and soul deep in the venture, despising the risks because she knew that succour was always at her elbow in the shape of her husband’s loyal support.  There was no condition involved which could not be explained to her credit; adequate compensation for the merry sacrifice was to be had in the brief detachment from rigid English conventionality, in the hazardous injection of quixotism into an otherwise overly healthful life of platitudes.  Society had become the sepulchre of youthful inspirations; she welcomed the resurrection.  The exquisite delicacy with which she analysed the cost and computed the interest won for her the warmest regard of her husband’s friend, fellow conspirator in a plot which involved the subtlest test of loyalty and honour.

“Yes,” said Medcroft simply.  “You won’t have reason to change your opinion, Brock.”  He hesitated for a moment and then burst out, rather plaintively:  “She’s an awfully good sort, demme, she is.  And so are you, Brock,—­it’s mighty decent of you.  You’re the only man in all the world that I could or would have asked to do this for me.  You are my best friend, Brock,—­you always have been.”  He seized the American’s hand and wrung it fervently.  Their eyes met in a long look of understanding and confidence.

“I’ll take good care of her,” said Brock quietly.

“I know you will.  Good-by, then.  I’ll see you late this afternoon.  You leave this evening at seven-twenty by the Orient Express.  I’ve had the reservations booked and—­and—­” He hesitated, a wry smile on his lips, “I daresay you won’t mind making a pretence of looking after the luggage a bit, will you?”

“I shall take this opportunity to put myself in training against the day when I may be travelling away with a happy bride of my own.  By the way, how long am I expected to remain in this state of matrimonial bliss?  That’s no small detail, you know, even though it escaped for the moment.”

“Three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” He almost reeled.

“That’s a long time in these days of speedy divorces,” said Medcroft blandly.

CHAPTER II

THE SISTER-IN-LAW

The Gare de l’Est was thronged with people when Brock appeared, fully half an hour before departing time.  In no little dismay, he found himself wondering if the whole of Paris was going away or, on the other hand, if the rest of the continent was arriving.  He felt a fool in Medcroft’s unspeakable checked suit; and the eyeglass was a much more obstinate, untractable thing than he had even suspected it could be.  The right side of his face was in a condition of semi-paralysis due to the muscular exactions required; he had a sickening fear that the scowl that marked his brow was destined to form a perpetual alliance with the smirk at the corner of his nose, forever destroying the symmetry of his face.  If one who has not the proper facial construction will but attempt the feat of holding a monocle in place for unbroken hours, he may come to appreciate at least one of the trials which beset poor Brock.