"Ripping? Ripping what? Good G.o.d, am I ripping anything?" gasped Mr.

Rodney, who was fussy and fat and generally futile. He seemed to grow suddenly uncomfortable, as if ripping was a habit with him.

Dinner was a success. Brock shone with a refulgence that bedimmed all expectations. His wife was delighted; in all of the four years of married life, Roxbury had never been so brilliant, so deliciously English (to use her own expression). Constance tingled with pride. Of late, she had experienced unusual difficulty in diverting her gaze from the handsome impostor, and her thoughts were ever of him--in justification of a platonic interest, of course, no more than that.

To-night her eyes and thoughts were for him alone,--a circ.u.mstance which, could he have felt sure, would have made him wildly happy, instead of inordinately furious in his complete misunderstanding of her manner toward Freddie Ulstervelt, who had no compunction about making love to two girls at the same time. She was never so beautiful, never so vivacious, never so resourceful. Brock was under the spell; he was fascinated; he had to look to himself carefully in order to keep his wits in the prescribed channel.

His self-esteem received a severe shock at the opera. Mrs. Medcroft, with malice aforethought, insisted that Ulstervelt should take her husband's seat. As the box held but six persons, the unfortunate Brock was compelled to shift more or less for himself. Inwardly raging, he suavely a.s.sured the party--Freddie in particular--that he would find a seat in the body of the house and would join them during the _Entr'acte_. Then he went out and sat in the foyer. It was fortunate that he hated Wagner. Before the end of the act he was joined by Mr.

Rodney, horribly bored and eager for relief. In a near-by _cafe_ they had a whiskey and soda apiece, and, feeling comfortably reinforced, returned to the opera house arm-in-arm, long and short, thin and fat, liberally discoursing upon the intellectuality of Herr Wagner.

"Say, you're not at all like an Englishman," exclaimed Mr. Rodney impulsively, even gratefully.

"Eh, what?" gasped Brock, replacing his eyegla.s.s. "Oh, I say, now, 'pon my word, haw, haw!"

"You've got an American sense of humour, Medcroft, that's what you have.

You recognise the joke that Wagner played on the world. Pardon me for saying it, sir, but I didn't think it was in an Englishman."

"Haw, haw! Ripping, by Jove! No, no! Not you. I mean the joke. But then, you see, it's been so long since Wagner played it that even an Englishman has had time to see the point. Besides, I've lived a bit of my life in America."

"That accounts for it," said the tactless but sincere Mr. Rodney.

Brock glared so venomously at the intrusive Mr. Ulstervelt upon the occasion of his next visit to his own box, that Mrs. Medcroft smiled softly to herself as she turned her face away. A few minutes later she seized the opportunity to whisper in his ear. Her eyes were sparkling, and something in her manner bespoke the bated breath.

"You are in love with my sister," was what she said to him. He blushed convincingly.

"Nonsense!" he managed to reply, but without much persuasiveness.

"But you are. I'm not blind. Anyone can see it. _She_ sees it. Haven't you sense enough to hide it from her? How do you expect to win?"

"My dear Mrs.--my dear Edith, you amaze me. I'm confusion itself. But,"

he went on eagerly, illogically, "do you think I _could_ win her?"

"That is not for one's wife to say," she said demurely.

"I'd be tremendously proud of you as a sister-in-law. And I'd be much obliged if you'd help me. But look at that confounded Ulstervelt! He's making love to her with the whole house looking on."

"I think it might be polite if you were to ask him out for a drink," she suggested.

"But I've had one and I never take two."

"Model husband! Then take the girls into the foyer for a stroll and a chat after the act. Don't mind me. I'm your friend."

"Do you think I've got a chance with her?" he asked with a brave effort.

"You've had one wife thrust upon you; why should you expect another without a struggle? I'm afraid you'll have to work for Constance."

"But I have your--I can count on your approval?" he whispered eagerly.

"Don't, Roxbury! People will think you are making love to _me_!" she protested, wilfully ignoring his question.

He returned to the box after the second act and proposed a turn in the foyer. To his disgust, Ulstervelt appropriated Constance and left him to follow with Mrs. Rodney and Katherine. He almost hated Edith for the tantalising smile she shot after him as he moved away, defeated.

If he was glaring luridly at the irrepressible Freddie, he was not alone in his gloom. Katherine Rodney, green with jealousy, was sending spiteful glances after her dearest friend, while Mrs. Rodney was sniffing the air as if it was laden with frost.

"Don't you think Connie is a perfect dear? I'm so fond of her," said Miss Rodney, so sweetly that he should have detected the nether-flow.

He started and pulled himself together. "Aw, yes,--ripping!" He consciously adjusted his eyegla.s.s for a hasty glance about in search of the easily disturbed Mr. Rodney. Then, to Mrs. Rodney, his mind a blank after a pa.s.sing glimpse of Constance and her escort: "Aw--er--a perfectly jolly opera, isn't it?"

CHAPTER IV

THE WOULD-BE BROTHER-IN-LAW

The next morning, bright and early, Mr. Alfred Rodney, a telegram in his hand, charged down the hall to Mrs. Medcroft's door. With characteristic Far West impulsiveness he banged on the door. A sleepy voice asked who was there.

"It's me--Rodney. Get up. I want to see Medcroft. Say, Roxbury, wake up!"

"Roxbury?" came in shrill tones from within. "He--Isn't he upstairs?

Good heaven, Mr. Rodney, what has happened? What _has_ happened?"

"Upstairs? What the deuce is he doing upstairs?"'

"He's--he's sleeping! Do tell me what's the matter?"

"Isn't this Mr. Medcroft's room?"

"Ye-es--but he isn't in. He objects to the noise. Oh, has anything happened to Roxbury?" She was standing just inside the door, and her voice betrayed agitation.

"My dear Edith, don't get excited. I have a telegram from--"

She uttered a shriek.

"He's been a.s.sa.s.sinated! Oh, Roxbury!"

"What the dev--Are you crazy? It's a telegram from ----"

"Oh, heavens! I knew they'd kill him--I knew something dreadful would happen if I left--" Here she stopped suddenly. He distinctly heard her catch her breath. After a moment she went on warily: "Is it from a man named Hobart?"

"No! It's from Odell-Carney. Hobart? I don't know anybody named Hobart."

(How was he to know that Hobart was the name that Medcroft had chosen for correspondence purposes?) "We're to meet the Odell-Carneys to-day in Munich. No time to be lost. We've got to catch the nine o'clock train."

"Oh!" came in great relief from the other side of the door. Then, in sudden dismay: "But I can't do it! The idea of getting up at an hour like this!"

"What room is Roxbury in?"

"I--_don't_ KNOW!!" in very decided tones. "Inquire at the office!"

Alfred Rodney was a persevering man. It is barely possible that he occupied a lower social plane than that attained by his wife, but he was a man of accomplishment, if not accomplishments. He always did what he set out to do. Be it said in defence of this a.s.sertion, he not only routed out his entire protesting flock, but had them at the West-Bahnhof in time to catch the Orient Express--luggage, accessories, and all. Be it also said that he was the only one in the party, save Constance and Tootles, who took to the situation amiably.