An old friend, a boon companion in bygone days, was this same Medcroft,--a broad-minded, broad-gauged young Englishman who had profited by a stay of some years in the States.

They had studied together in Paris and they had toiled together in New York.

This is what he read: "Mr.and Mrs.
Roxbury Medcroft, of London, are stopping at the Ritz, _en route_ to Vienna.

Mr.Medcroft will attend the meeting of Austrian Architects, to be held there next week, and, with his wife, will afterwards spend a fortnight in the German Alps, the guests of the Alfred Rodneys, of Seattle." "Dear old Rox, I must look him up at once," mused Brock.

"The Rodneys of Seattle?
Never heard of 'em." He looked at his watch, signed his check, deposited the usual franc, acknowledged Charles's well-practised smile of thanks, and pushed back his chair, his gaze travelling involuntarily toward the portals of the American bar across the court, just beyond the _concierge's_ quarters.