There was not the slightest doubt in her mind that
Thomas and Lord Monckton were the two men who had stood on the curb
that foggy night in London. One had taken the necklace and the other
had wagered he would carry it six months in America before returning it
to its owner. The Nana Sahib's ruby she attributed to a real thief,
who had known Crawford in former days and, conscience-stricken, had
returned it.
Great Britain was an empire of wagerers she knew; they wagered for and
against every conceivable thing which had its dependence on chance.
That first night on board the Celtic, when Thomas came to her cabin in
the dark, she had recognized his voice. In the light the activity of
the eye had dulled the keenness of the ear; but in the dark the ear had
found the chord. For days she had been subconsciously waiting to hear
one or the other of those voices; and Thomas' had come with a shock.
The words "Aeneid" and "Enid" had so little variation in sound between
them that Kitty had found her second man in Lord Monckton. Sooner or
later she would trap them.
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