her capacity for selection and disposal was even more comprehensive than
that of the two men, both of whom were somewhat staggered by the
boldness of more than one suggestion which came from her fruitful
storehouse of romantic ideas. She had grasped the full humour of the
situation, from inception to _dénouement_, and, to all appearance, was
heart and soul deep in the venture, despising the risks because she knew
that succour was always at her elbow in the shape of her husband's loyal
support. There was no condition involved which could not be explained to
her credit; adequate compensation for the merry sacrifice was to be had
in the brief detachment from rigid English conventionality, in the
hazardous injection of quixotism into an otherwise overly healthful life
of platitudes. Society had become the sepulchre of youthful
inspirations; she welcomed the resurrection. The exquisite delicacy with
which she analysed the cost and computed the interest won for her the
warmest regard of her husband's friend, fellow conspirator in a plot
which involved the subtlest test of loyalty and honour.

"Yes," said Medcroft simply. "You won't have reason to change your
opinion, Brock." He hesitated for a moment and then burst out, rather
plaintively: "She's an awfully good sort, demme, she is. And so are you,
Brock,--it's mighty decent of you. You're the only man in all the world
that I could or would have asked to do this for me. You are my best
friend, Brock,--you always have been." He seized the American's hand and
wrung it fervently. Their eyes met in a long look of understanding and
confidence.

"I'll take good care of her," said Brock quietly.

"I know you will. Good-by, then. I'll see you late this afternoon. You
leave this evening at seven-twenty by the Orient Express. I've had the