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MacGrath, Harold, 1871-1932

"The Voice in the Fog"

It's having the thing happen in this hotel.
We'll add another five hundred if you succeed. Not in ten years has
there been so much as a spoon missing. What do you think about it?"
"Big case. I'll be back in a little while. Don't tell th' reporters
anything."
Haggerty was on his way to a near-by chemist whom he knew, when he
espied Crawford in his electric, stalled in a jam at Forty-second and
Broadway. He had not seen the archeologist since his return from
Europe.
"Hey, Mr. Crawford!" Haggerty bawled, putting his head into the window.
"Why, Haggerty, how are you? Can I give you a lift?"
"If it won't trouble you."
"Not at all. Pretty hot weather."
"For my business. Wish I could run off t' th' seashore like you folks.
Heard o' th' Maharajah's emeralds?"
"Yes. You're on that case?"
"Trying t' get on it. Looks blank jus' now. Clever bit o' work;
something new. But I've got news for you, though. Your man Mason is
back here again. I thought I wouldn't say nothing t' you till I put my
hand on his shoulder."
"I'm sorry.


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