The Voice in the Fog | Page 3

the irony. She wondered if the speaker's
companion did.
"Well, a wager's a wager."
"And you're the last chap to welch a square bet. What's the odds? My
word, I didn't urge you to change the stakes."
"Didn't you?"
The voice was young and pleasant; and Kitty was sure that the owner's
face was even as pleasant as his voice. What had he wagered and lost?
"If you're really hard pressed. . . ."
"Hard pressed! Man, I've nothing in God's world but two guineas, six."
"Oh, I say now!"
"Its the truth."
"If a fiver will help you. . . ."

"Thanks. A wager's a wager. I've lost. I was a bally fool to play cards.
Deserve what I got. Six months; that's the agreement. A madman's
wager; but I'll stick."
"Six months; twelve o'clock, midnight, November thirteenth. It's the
date, old boy; that's what hoodooed you, as the Americans say."
Kitty wasn't sure that the speaker was English; if he was, he had lost
the insular significance of his vowels. Still, it was, in its way, as
pleasant a voice as the other's. There was no doubt about the younger
man; he was English to the core, English in his love of chance, English
in his loyalty to his word; stupidly English. That he was the younger
was a trifling matter to deduce: no young man ever led his elder into
mischief, harmful or innocuous.
"Six months. It's a joke, my boy; a great big laugh for you and me,
when there's nothing left in life but toddies and churchwardens. Six
months."
"I dare say I can hang on till that time is over. Well, good night! No
letters, no addresses."
"Exact terms. Six months from date I'll be cooling my heels in your
ante-room."
"Cavenaugh, if it's anything else except a joke. . . ."
"Oh, rot! It was your suggestion. I tell you, it's a lark, nothing more. A
gentleman's word."
"I'll start for my diggings."
"Ride home with me; my cab's here somewhere."
"No, thanks. I've got a little thinking to do and prefer to be alone. Good
night."
"And good luck go with you. Deuce take it, if you feel so badly. . . ."

There was no reply; and Kitty decided that the younger man had gone
on. Silence; or rather, she no longer heard the speakers. Then a low
chuckle came to her and this chuckle broadened into ironic laughter;
and she knew that Mephisto was abroad. What had been the wager; and
what was the meaning of the six months? It is instinctive in woman to
interpret the human voice correctly, especially when the eyes are not
distracted by physical presentations. This man outside, whoever and
whatever he was, deep in her heart Kitty knew that he was not going to
play fair. What a disappointing world it was!--to set these human
voices ringing in her ears, and then to take them out of her life forever!
Still the din of horns and whistles and sirens, still the shouting. Would
they never move on? She was hungry. She wanted to get back to the
hotel, to learn what had happened to her mother. Militant suffragettes,
indeed! A pack of mad witches, who left their brooms behind kitchen
doors when they ought to be wielding them about dusty corners.
Woman never won anything by using brickbats and torches: which
proved on the face of it that these militants were inefficient,
irresponsible, and unlearned in history. Poor simpletons! Had not theirs
always been the power behind the throne? What more did they want?
Her cogitations were peculiarly interrupted. The door opened, and a
man plumped down beside her.
"Enid, it looks as if we'd never get out of this hole. Have you got your
collar up?"
Numb and terrified, Kitty felt the man's hands fumbling about her neck.
"Where's your sable stole? You women beat the very devil for
thoughtlessness. A quid to a farthing, you've left it in the box, and I'll
have to go back for it, providing they'll let me in. And it's midnight, if a
minute."
Pressing herself tightly into her corner, Kitty managed to gasp: "My
name is not Enid, sir. You have mistaken your carriage."
"What? Good heavens!" Almost instantly a match sparkled and flared.

His eyes, screened behind his hand, palm outward (a perfectly natural
action, yet nicely calculated), beheld a pretty, charming face, large Irish
blue eyes (a bit startled at this moment), and a head of hair as
shiny-black as polished Chinese blackwood. The match, still burning,
curved like a falling star through the window. "A thousand pardons,
madam! Very stupid of me. Quite evident that I am lost. I beg your
pardon again, and hope I have not annoyed you."
He was gone before she could