"
It was quite train time before Mrs. Medcroft was seen hurrying in from
the carriage way, pursued by a trio of _facteurs_, laden with bags and
boxes.
"Don't shake hands," she warned in a quick whisper, as they came
together. "I recognised you by the clothes."
"Thank God, it wasn't my face!" he cried. "Are your trunks checked?"
"Yes,--this afternoon. I have nothing but the bags. You have the
tickets? Then let us get aboard. I just couldn't get here earlier," she
whispered guiltily. "We had to say good-by, you know. Poor old Roxy! How
he hated it! I sent Burton and O'Brien on ahead of me. My sister brought
them here in her carriage, and I daresay they're aboard and abed by this
time. You didn't see them? But of course you wouldn't know my maids. How
stupid of me! Don't be alarmed. They have their instructions, Roxbury.
Doesn't it sound odd to you?"
Brock was icy-cold with apprehension as they walked down the line of
_wagon-lits_ in the wake of the bag-bearers. Mrs. Medcroft was as
self-possessed and as _degage_ as he was ill at ease and awkward. As
they ascended the steps of the carriage, she turned back to him and
said, with the most malicious twinkle in her eyes,--
"I'm not a bit nervous."
"But you've been married so much longer than I have," he responded.
Then came the disposition of the bags and parcels. She calmly directed
the porters to put the overflow into the upper berth.
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