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Updated: June 21, 2025
"You are masquerading here as Roxbury Medcroft the architect. You are not Medcroft. I have watched you for weeks. To-day we have learned that Medcroft is in London. Your linen is marked with a letter B. You've drawn money on a letter of credit together with a woman who signs herself as Edith F. Medcroft. There is something wrong with you, Mr.
He was recalling the fact that Medcroft had married a beautiful Philadelphia girl some years ago in London, a young lady whom he had never seen, so thoroughly expatriated had she become in consequence of almost a lifetime residence in England. He remembered now that she was rich and that he had sent her a ridiculously expensive present and a congratulatory cablegram at the time of the wedding.
Roxbury Medcroft, my friend and fellow conspirator. He is the husband of this lady, not I. I am to be the husband of this lady, thank God." There was a moment of absolute silence it may have been stupor. The two audiences faced each other with emotions widely at variance. It was Mrs. Rodney who spoke first. "Is this true, Edith?" she quavered. "Yes, yes, yes!" cried Edith, her eyes dancing.
"But she isn't having an affair with this chap," cried Mrs. Odell-Carney, her patience exhausted. "She's having an affair with a chap in London the one who writes Good gracious! Of course! Why, what fools we are. The real Medcroft is in London, and it is he who is writing the letters. How stupid of me!" "Aha!" exclaimed he triumphantly. "Of course, she's getting letters from her husband. Why not?
"I think you are such a nice man to have about," commented Mrs. Medcroft, this time yawning freely and stretching her fine young arms in the luxury of home contentment. Brock went to bed early, in Vienna that night tired but happy, caring not what the morrow brought forth so long as it continued to provide him with a sister-in-law and a wife who was devoted to another man.
There could be no doubt of it none in the least, declared Miss Rodney in the privacy of her own miserable reflections. Just as she was on the point of carrying her woes to her mother, an astounding revelation came to her out of a clear sky; an entirely new condition came into the problem. It dawned upon her suddenly, without warning, that Roxbury Medcroft was in love with his sister-in-law!
He began by laughing his friend to scorn; then, as Medcroft persisted, went so far as to take him severely to task for the proposed imposition on the unsuspecting Rodneys, to say nothing of the trick he would play upon the convention of architects. "I'd be recognised as an impostor," he said warmly, "and booted out of the convention. I shudder to think of what Mr.
Medcroft will object to it in private," lamented Brock good-naturedly. "I daresay," said her husband cheerfully. "She's your wife in public only. By the way, you'll have to get used to the name of Roxbury. Don't look around as if you expected to find me standing behind your back when she says, 'Roxbury, dear! I shan't be there, you know. She'll mean you. Don't forget that."
As a matter of fact, when Medcroft, hiding in London, saw the reproduced interview in the "Times," together with editorial comments upon the extraordinary attitude of a supposedly conservative Englishman of recognised ability, he was tried almost beyond endurance.
It seems, also, that the bank insists upon having some light thrown upon the methods by which Mrs. Medcroft secures money on her letter of credit." "You are welcome to all that, sir," declared Mr. Odell-Carney, "but I am interested to know just why my wife and I are brought into this affair." "Because you are guests of Mr. Rodney, sir, I regret to state. We have no complaint against you, sir.
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