Madame would not breakfast until nine. She was still very sleepy. Would
Monsieur Medcroft be good enough to order her coffee and rolls brought
to her compartment at that hour? And would he mind seeing that the maid
saw to it that Raggles surely had his biscuit and a walk at the next
station?

"Raggles?" queried Brock, passing his hand over his brow. The other
shrugged his shoulders and looked askance. "Oh, yes,--I--understand,"
murmured the puzzled one, recovering himself. For the next ten minutes
he wondered who Raggles could be.

He had eaten his strawberries and was waiting for the eggs and coffee,
resentfully eying the early risers who were now coming in for their
coffee and rolls. They had slept--he could tell by the complacent manner
in which their hair was combed and by the interest they found in the
scenery which he had come, by tedious familiarity, to loathe and scorn.

The actions of two young women near the door attracted his attention.
From their actions he suddenly gathered that they were discussing
him,--and in a more or less facetious fashion, at that. They whispered
and looked shy and grinned in a most disconcerting manner. He turned red
about the ears and began to wonder, fiercely, why his eggs and coffee
were so slow in coming. Then, to his consternation, the young women,
plainly of the serving-class, bore down upon him with abashed smiles. He
noticed for the first time that one of them was carrying a very small
child in her arms; as she came alongside, grinning sheepishly, she
extended the small one toward the astounded Brock, and said in excellent
old English:

[Illustration: Brock]