The Voice in the Fog | Page 7

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.
CHAPTER III
That same morning, at eleven precisely (when an insolent west wind
sprang up and tore the fog into ribbons and scarves and finally blew it
into smithereens, channelward) there stood before the windows of a

famous haberdashery in the Strand a young man, twenty-four years of
age, typically English, beardless, hair clipped neatly about his neck and
temples, his skin fresh colored, his body carefully but thriftily clothed.
Smooth-skinned he was about the eyes and nose and mouth, unmarked
by dissipation; and he stood straight; and by the set of his shoulders
(not particularly deep or wide) you would infer that when he looked at
you he would look straight. Pity, isn't it, that you never really can tell
what a man is inside by drawing up your brief from what he is outside.
There is always the heel of Achilles somewhere; trust the devil to find
that.
Of course you wish to know forthwith who returned the ruby, and why.
As our statesmen say, regarding any important measure for public
welfare, the time is not yet ripe. Besides, the young man I am
describing had never heard of the Nana Sahib's ruby, unless vaguely in
some Sepoy Mutiny tale.
His expression at this moment was rather mournful. He was regretting
the thirty shillings the week he had for several years drawn regularly in
this shop. Inside there he had introduced the Raglan shirt, the Duke of
Westminster four-in-hand, and the Churchill batwing collar. He longed
to enter and plead for reinstatement, but his new-found pride refused to
budge his legs door-ward. Thirty shillings, twelve for his "third floor
back," and the rest for clothes and books and simple amusements. What
a whirl he had been in, this past fortnight!
He pulled at his chin, shook his head and turned away. No, he simply
could not do it. What! suffer himself to be laughed at behind his back?
Impossible, a thousand times no! At the first news stand he bought two
or three morning papers, and continued on to his lodgings. He must
leave England at once, but the question was--How?
It was a comfortable room, as "third floor backs" go. He read the
"want" advertisements carefully, and at length paused at a paragraph
which seemed to suit his fancy perfectly. "Cabin stewards
wanted--White Star Line--New York and Liverpool." He cut out the
clipping, folded it and stored it away. Then he proceeded to pack up his
belongings, not a very laborious affair.

Manuscripts. He riffled the pages ruefully. Sonnets and chant-royals
and epics, fine and lofty in spirit; so fine indeed that they easily sifted
through every editorial office in London. There was even a bulky
romance. He had read so much about the enormous royalties which
American authors received for their work, and English authors who
were popular on the other side, that his ambition had been frenetically
stirred. The fortunes such men as Maundering and Piffle and Drool
made! And all he had accomplished so far had been the earnest support
of the postal service. Far back at the beginning he had been unfortunate
enough to sell a sonnet for ten shillings. Alack! You sell your first
sonnet, you win your first hand at cards, and then the passion has you.
Poetry was a drug on the market. Nobody read it (or wrote it) these
days; and any one who attempted to sell it was clearly mad. Oh, a jingle
for Punch might pass, you know; something clever, with a snapper to it.
But epic poetry? Sonnets? Why, didn't you know that there wasn't a
magazine going that did not have some sub-editor who could whack
out fourteen lines in fourteen minutes, whenever a page needed filling
up? These things he had been told times without number. And
Maundering, Piffle and Drool had long since cornered the romance
market. The