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.
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.
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