The Voice in the Fog

"Good morning, Thomas," greeted the master of the house cordially.

"I am leaving, Mr. Killigrew. Will you be kind enough to let me have

the use of the motor to the station?"

"Leaving! What's happened? What's the matter? Young man, what the

devil's this about?"

"I am sorry, sir, but I have insulted Miss Killigrew."

"Insulted Kitty?" Killigrew sprang up.

"Just a moment, sir," warned Thomas. The tense, short but powerful

figure of Kitty's father was not at that moment an agreeable thing to

look at; and Thomas knew that those knotted hands were rising toward

his throat. "Do not misinterpret me, sir. I took Miss Kitty in my

arms and kissed her."

"You--kissed--Kitty?" Killigrew fell back into his chair, limp. For a

moment there had been black murder in his heart; now he wondered

whether to weep or laugh. The reaction was too sudden to admit of

coherent thought. "You kissed Kitty?" he repeated mechanically.

"Yes, sir."

"What did she do?"

"I did not wait to learn, sir."

Killigrew got up and walked the length of the room several times, his

chin in his collar, his hands clasped behind his back, under his

coat-tails. The fifth passage carried him out on to the veranda. He

kept on going and disappeared among the lilac hedges.

Thomas thought he understood this action, that his inference was

perfectly logical; Killigrew, rather than strike the man who had so

gratuitously insulted his daughter, had preferred to run away. (I

know; for a long time I, too, believed Thomas the most colossal ass

since Dobson.) Thomas gazed mournfully about the room. It was all

over. He had burned his bridges. It had been so pleasant, so

homelike; and he had begun to love these unpretentious people as if

they had been his very own.

Except that which had been expended on clothes, Thomas had most of his

salary. It would carry him along till he found something else to do.

To get away, immediately, was the main idea; he had found a door to the

trap. (The chamois-bag lay in his trunk, forgotten.) "Your breakfast is ready, sir," announced the grave butler.

So Thomas ate his chops and potatoes and toast and drank his tea, alone.

And Killigrew, blinking tears, leaned against the stout branches of the

lilacs and buried his teeth in his coat-sleeve. He was as near

apoplexy as he was ever to come.