Nevertheless, she had long since made up her mind to build her own
romance. That was her right, and she did not propose to surrender it
to anybody. Her weary head on the pillow, she thought of the voices in
the fog. "A wager's a wager."

The next morning the fog was not quite so thick; that is, in places
there were holes and punctures. You saw a man's face and torso, but
neither hat nor legs. Again, you saw the top of a cab bowling along,
but no horse: phantasmally.

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.