Voices. Two men were speaking near the curb-door. She turned her head

involuntarily in this direction. There were no lights in the frontage

before which stood her cab, which intervened between the Brocken haze

in the street, throwing a square of Stygian shadow against the fog,

with right and left angles of aureola. She could distinguish no shapes.

"Cheer up, old top; you're in hard luck."

"I'm a bally ass."

"No, no; only a ripping good sporty game all the way through."

Oddly enough, Kitty sensed the irony. She wondered if the speaker's

companion did.

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"Well, a wager's a wager."

"And you're the last chap to welch a square bet. What's the odds? My

word, I didn't urge you to change the stakes."

"Didn't you?"

The voice was young and pleasant; and Kitty was sure that the owner's

face was even as pleasant as his voice. What had he wagered and lost?

"If you're really hard pressed. . . ."

"Hard pressed! Man, I've nothing in God's world but two guineas, six."

"Oh, I say now!"

"Its the truth."

"If a fiver will help you. . . ."

"Thanks. A wager's a wager. I've lost. I was a bally fool to play

cards. Deserve what I got. Six months; that's the agreement. A

madman's wager; but I'll stick."

"Six months; twelve o'clock, midnight, November thirteenth. It's the

date, old boy; that's what hoodooed you, as the Americans say."

Kitty wasn't sure that the speaker was English; if he was, he had lost

the insular significance of his vowels. Still, it was, in its way, as

pleasant a voice as the other's. There was no doubt about the younger

man; he was English to the core, English in his love of chance, English

in his loyalty to his word; stupidly English. That he was the younger

was a trifling matter to deduce: no young man ever led his elder into

mischief, harmful or innocuous.

"Six months. It's a joke, my boy; a great big laugh for you and me,

when there's nothing left in life but toddies and churchwardens. Six

months."

"I dare say I can hang on till that time is over. Well, good night!

No letters, no addresses."

"Exact terms. Six months from date I'll be cooling my heels in your

ante-room."

"Cavenaugh, if it's anything else except a joke. . . ."

"Oh, rot! It was your suggestion. I tell you, it's a lark, nothing

more. A gentleman's word."

"I'll start for my diggings."




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