when they passed on, still suspicious.

The train was late, and at five o'clock he was desperately combating an
impulse to leave it at Strassburg, find lodging in a hotel, and then,
refreshed, set out for London to have it out with the malevolent
Medcroft. The disembarking of the venerable mourners, however, restored
him to a degree of his peace of mind. After all, he reviewed, it would
be cowardly and base to desert a trusting wife; he pictured her as
asleep and securely confident in his stanchness. No: he would have it
out with Medcroft at some later day.

He was congratulating himself on the acquisition of a bed--although it
might possess the odour of a bed of tuberoses--when all of his pleasant
calculations were upset by the appearance of a German burgher and his
family. It was then that he learned that these people had booked _le
compartement_ from Strassburg to Munich.

Brock resumed his window-seat and despondently awaited the call to
breakfast. He fell sound asleep with his monocle in position; nor did it
matter to him that his hat dropped through the window and went scuttling
off across the green Rhenish fields. When next he looked at his watch,
it was eight o'clock. A small boy was standing at the end of the
passage, staring wide-eyed at him. Two little girls came piling, half
dressed, from a compartment, evidently in response to the youngster's
whispered command to hurry out and see the funny man. Brock scowled
darkly, and the trio darted swiftly into the compartment.

He dragged his stiff legs into the dining-car at Stuttgart and shoved
them under a table. The car was quite empty. As he was staring blankly
at the menu, the _conducteur_ from his car hurried in with the word that