The Voice in the Fog | Page 6

Ten thousand in sapphires you couldn't
match in a hundred years, and Molly coming in banged up like a
prize-fighter! . . . Someone at the door."

It proved to be Crawford.
"Glad you got back safely," he said relievedly.
"Had her necklace stolen," replied Killigrew briefly.
"You don't mean to say. . . ."
Kitty recounted her amazing adventure.
"And my wife's ruby is gone." Crawford made the disclosure simply.
He was a quiet man; he had learned the futility of gestures, of wasting
words in lamentation.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Kitty.
"The windows of the cab were down. I stood outside, smoking to pass
the time. Suddenly I heard Mrs. Crawford cry out. A hand had reached
in from the off side, clutched the pendant, twisted it off, and was gone.
All quicker than I can tell it. I tried to give chase, but it was utter folly.
I couldn't see anything two feet away. Mrs. Crawford is a bit knocked
up over it. Rather sinister stone, if its history is a true one: the Nana
Sahib's ruby, you know. For the jewel itself I don't care. I never liked to
see her wear it."
Killigrew threw up his hands. "And this is the London you've been
bragging about to me! How much was the ruby worth?"
"Don't know; nobody does. It's one of those jewels you can't set a price
on. He will not be able to dispose of it in its present shape. He'll break
it up and sell the pieces, and that's the shame of it. Think of the infernal
cleverness of the man! Two or three hundred vehicles stalled in the
street, fog so thick you couldn't see your hand before your face. Simple
game for a man with ready wit. And the police busy at the two ends of
the block, trying to straighten out the tangle. Mrs. Crawford says that
the hand was white, slender and well kept. It came in swiftly and
accurately. The man had been watching and waiting. She was so
unprepared for the act that she didn't even try to catch the hand. I have

notified Scotland Yard. But you can't hunt down a hand. I'm willing to
wager that we'll neither of us ever see the gems again."
"He must have come directly from your carriage to mine," said Kitty. "I
am heart-broken."
"One of the tricks of fate. Glad you got back all right. We were
mightily worried. Come over across the hall at nine to-morrow, all of
you, for breakfast. Don't fuss up. And we'll talk over the affair and plan
what's to be done. Good night."
"I like that young man," declared Killigrew emphatically. "He's the real
article. American to the backbone; a millionaire who doesn't splurge.
Well," sighing regretfully, "he was born to it, and I had to dig for mine.
But I can't get it through my head why he wants to excavate mummies
when he could dig up potatoes with some profit."
"Dad, find me an earl or a duke like Mr. Crawford, and I'll marry him
just as fast as you like."
"Kittibudget, I'm not so strong for dukes as I was. Your mother will
have a black eye in the morning, or I don't know a shindy when I see it.
Now, hike off to bed. I'm all in."
"You poor old dad! I worry you to death."
She threw her lovely arms about his neck and kissed him.
"Well, you're worth it. Kitty, I've had a jolt to-night. You marry whom
you blame please. I've been doing some tall thinking. Make your own
romance, duke or dry-goods clerk. You'd never hook up with anything
that wasn't a man. You're Irish. If he happens to be made, all well and
good; if not, why, I'll undertake to make him. And that's a bargain. I
don't want any alimony money in the Killigrew family."
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