THE CRASH.


One morning, earlier than his earliest hour of demanding his shaving
water, Tom rang the bell violently and asked the alarmed Polly what had
become of Mr. Roxdal.

"How should I know, sir?" she gasped. "Ain't he been in, sir?"

"Apparently not," Tom answered anxiously. "He never remains out. We have
been here three weeks now, and I can't recall a single night he hasn't
been home before twelve. I can't make it out." All enquiries proved
futile. Mrs. Seacon reminded him of the thick fog that had come on
suddenly the night before.

"What fog?" asked Tom.

"Lord! didn't you notice it, sir?"

"No, I came in early, smoked, read, and went to bed about eleven. I
never thought of looking out of the window."

"It began about ten," said Mrs. Seacon, "and got thicker and thicker. I
couldn't see the lights of the river from my bedroom. The poor gentleman
has been and gone and walked into the water." She began to whimper.

"Nonsense, nonsense," said Tom, though his expression belied his words.
"At the worst I should think he couldn't find his way home, and couldn't
get a cab, so put up for the night at some hotel. I daresay it will be