CHAPTER VIII

THE PRODIGAL HUSBAND


The unlucky Brock, wild with rage and chagrin, had paced his temporary
prison in the top storey of the Tirol from eleven o'clock till two,
bitterly cursing the fools who were keeping him in durance more vile
than that from which they had generously released him. He realised that
it would be unwise to create a disturbance in the house by clamouring
for freedom, because, in the first place, there already had been scandal
enough, and in the second place, his distrustful bondsmen had promised
faithfully to seek out the devoted Connie and apprise her of his
release. He had no thought, of course, that in the mean time she might
be duped into paying a bribe to the guard.

Not only was he direfully cursing the trio, but also the addlepated
Medcroft and his own addlepated self. It is to be feared that he had
harsh thoughts of all the Medcrofts, as far down as Raggles. His dream
of love and happiness had turned into a nightmare; the comedy had become
a tragic snarl of all the effects known to melodrama. Bitterly he
lamented the fact that now he could not go before the assembled critics
in the morning and proclaim to them that Constance was his wife. From
this, it readily may be judged that Brock was not familiar with all the
details of the vigorous Miss Fowler's plan. As a matter of fact, he did
not know that he was expected to fly the country like a fugitive. She
had known in her heart that he would never agree to a plan of that sort;
it was, therefore, necessary for her to deceive him in more ways than
one. Plainly speaking, Brock had laboured under the delusion that she
merely proposed to bribe the gaoler into letting him off for the night,