He took it all very much as if the world owed him an explanation and not
_vice versa_. As he was stalking from the room, Brock bethought himself
to ask,--

"When did you arrive, old man?"

"Last night on the 12.10. I registered as Smith. It was so late that I
decided not to disturb Edith. They said in the office that you'd gone to
bed, Brock. Now that I recall it, they said it in a very odd way too.
In fact, one of the clerks asked if I had it in for you too."

"You were here all night?" murmured Constance in plaintive misery.

"Well, not precisely all night, Connie. Half of it," replied Roxbury.
"Brock, you ass, I telegraphed you I was coming and asked you to meet me
at the station. I telegraphed twice from London and--"

"Don't call me an ass," grated Brock. "Why didn't you send 'em to me as
Medcroft? I haven't been Brock until this very morning."

"'Pon my soul, Brock, it was rather stupid of me," he confessed
sheepishly. "But, you see," with an inspired smile, "one of 'em was to
congratulate you on winning Connie. By Jove, you know, I _couldn't_ very
well address that one to myself."

"But--but he hadn't won me," stammered Constance Fowler.

"Edith," said Roxbury, deep reproach in his voice, "you wrote me that a
week ago!" Edith merely squeezed his arm.