Suddenly his glance fell upon a name in the society column before him,
"Roxbury Medcroft." His face lighted up with genuine pleasure. An old
friend, a boon companion in bygone days, was this same Medcroft,--a
broad-minded, broad-gauged young Englishman who had profited by a stay
of some years in the States. They had studied together in Paris and they
had toiled together in New York. This is what he read: "Mr. and Mrs.
Roxbury Medcroft, of London, are stopping at the Ritz, _en route_ to
Vienna. Mr. Medcroft will attend the meeting of Austrian Architects, to
be held there next week, and, with his wife, will afterwards spend a
fortnight in the German Alps, the guests of the Alfred Rodneys, of
Seattle."

"Dear old Rox, I must look him up at once," mused Brock. "The Rodneys of
Seattle? Never heard of 'em." He looked at his watch, signed his check,
deposited the usual franc, acknowledged Charles's well-practised smile
of thanks, and pushed back his chair, his gaze travelling involuntarily
toward the portals of the American bar across the court, just beyond the
_concierge's_ quarters. Simultaneously a tall figure emerged from the
bar, casting eager glances in all directions,--a tall figure in a
checked suit, bowler hat, white reindeer gloves, high collar, and grey
spats. Brock came to his feet quickly. The monocle dropped from the
other's eye, and his long legs carried him eagerly toward the American.

"Medcroft! Bless your heart! I was just on the point of looking you up
at the Ritz. It's good to see you," Brock cried as they clasped hands.

"Of all the men and of all the times, Brock, you are the most
opportune," exclaimed the other. "I saw that you were here and bolted my
breakfast to catch you. These beastly telephones never work. Oh, I say,
old man, have you finished yours?"