"connections" had never seen the illustrious Medcroft, husband to their
distant cousin, there still remained the disturbing fear that they would
recognise--or rather fail to recognise him!--from chance pictures that
might have come to their notice. Besides, there was always the
possibility that they had seen or even met Brock in New York. He
lugubriously admitted that he had met unfortunate thousands whom he had
promptly forgotten but who seldom failed to remember him. It is not
surprising, then, that the Medcrofts, _ex parte_, were in a state of
perturbation,--a condition which did not relax in the least as the time
drew near for the arrival of the five o'clock train from the north.
Constance strove faithfully, even valiantly, to inject confidence into
the souls of the prime conspirators.

"You have done so beautifully up to this time," she protested to the
dolorous Brock, "why should you be afraid? I once read of an Indian
chief whose name was Young-Man-Afraid-of-his-Wife! He was a very brave
fellow in spite of all that. You are afraid of Edith, but can't you be
like the Indian? He--"

"That's all very nice," mourned Brock, "but he could cover his confusion
with war paint. Don't forget that, my dear. Think of the difference in
our disguises! War paint in daubs versus spats and an eyeglass. Besides,
he didn't have to talk West End English. And, moreover, he lived in a
wigwam, and didn't have to explain a sky bedroom to strangers who
happened along."

"That is a bit awkward," she confessed thoughtfully. "But can't you say
that you have insomnia, and can't sleep unless you are above the noise
of the street?"