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MacGrath, Harold, 1871-1932

"The Voice in the Fog"

I'm on m' way."
The door behind him closed with a bang. It startled every clerk on the
huge floor. The door to the boss' office did not bang more than once a
year, and that was immediately after the annual meeting of the
directors of the Combined Brazilian Coffees. Who was this potentate
who dared desecrate the honored quiet of this loft?
Haggerty's news hit Killigrew hard. Thomas. There must be a mistake.
He had not studied men all these years without learning to read young
and old with creditable accuracy. Thomas was as easy to read as an
amateur's scorecard; runs were runs, hits were hits, outs were outs.
Why, Thomas wouldn't have stolen an apple from a farmer's
orchard--without permission. What, enter a carriage in a fog, steal a
necklace, and carry it abound with him for months? Never in this
world. And private secretary to the very person he had robbed? Of all
the fool situations, this was the cap! Imbecility was written all over
the face of it. It was simply a coincidence in the matter of names.
Yet, steward on the _Celtic_; there was no getting away from that.


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