The fortnight in Paris was to be followed by a week in St. Petersburg
and a brief tour of Sweden and Norway. His stay in the gay city was
drawing to a close. That very morning he expected to book for St.
Petersburg, leaving in three days.
Suddenly his glance fell upon a name in the society column before him,
"Roxbury Medcroft." His face lighted up with genuine pleasure. 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. Simultaneously a tall figure emerged from the
bar, casting eager glances in all directions,--a tall figure in a
checked suit, bowler hat, white reindeer gloves, high collar, and grey
spats.
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