The Voice in the Fog

She kissed him again and went into her bedroom. Kind-hearted,

impulsive old dad! In a week's time he would forget all about this

heart-to-heart talk, and shoo away every male who hadn't a title or a

million, or who wasn't due to fall heir to one or the other.

Nevertheless, she had long since made up her mind to build her own

romance. That was her right, and she did not propose to surrender it

to anybody. Her weary head on the pillow, she thought of the voices in

the fog. "A wager's a wager."

The next morning the fog was not quite so thick; that is, in places

there were holes and punctures. You saw a man's face and torso, but

neither hat nor legs. Again, you saw the top of a cab bowling along,

but no horse: phantasmally.

Breakfast in Crawford's suite was merry enough. Misfortune was turned

into jest. At least, they made a fine show of it; which is

characteristic of people who bow to the inevitable whenever confronted

by it. Crawford was passing his cigars, when a page was announced.

The boy entered briskly, carrying a tray upon which reposed a small

package.

"By special messenger, sir. It was thought you might be liking to have

it at once, sir." The page pocketed the shilling politely and departed.

"That's the first bit of live work I've seen anybody do in this hotel,"

commented Killigrew, striking a match.

"I have stopped here often," said Crawford, "and they are familiar with

my wishes. Excuse me till I see what this is."

The quartet at the table began chatting again, about the fog, what they

intended doing in Paris, sunshiny Paris. By and by Crawford came over

quietly and laid something on the table before his wife's plate.

It was the Nana Sahib's ruby, so-called.