The _Standard_ had profited by securing a great
"beat."
The Odell-Carneys looked at each other in wonder and perplexity. "What
does it mean?" asked the lady, her eyes narrowing.
"Look here, Agatha, this paper's at least two days old. Now, how the
devil can Medcroft be in London and Innsbruck at the same time. He _was_
here day before yesterday, wasn't he? I'm so c'nfended unobserving--"
"Yes, yes, he was here. And this paper--" She paused irresolutely.
"Says he was _there_. 'Pon my word, it's most uncanny. There's some
mystery here."
"I've got it, Carney! This is not Roxbury Medcroft."
"Good Gawd!"
"This explains everything. Heavens, Carney! This fellow is--is her
lover! She's running about the country with him. She's--"
"Her lover? 'Gad, my dear, he may have been so at one time, but he's the
other one's lover now, take my word for it. I say, 'pon my soul, this is
a charming game your friends the Rodneys have let us into. They--"
"My friends! Yours, you mean!" she retorted.
"Oh, come now! But let it go at that. They know, of course, that this
fellow isn't her husband, and yet, by Gad, Agatha, they've gone about
deliberately palming him off on us as the real article. They are
actually sanctioning the whole bloody--"
"Stop a moment, Carney," interrupted his wife. "The London chap may be
the fraud. Let us go slow, my dear."
"Slow? How the devil can we go slow in such fast company? No! This
fellow is the fraud.
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