"Good heavens!" he said, fumbling nervously all over his clothes, "I've
given it to the cabman. Of all the infernal idiocy! I knew I should. I had
a presentiment that I should get it muddled up with my other money and give
it away."
"What was it?" he was asked.
"Was it something very valuable?"
"Was it a rare coin?"
Murmurs of sympathy made a low accompaniment.
"It was a goldmohur," said Sir Charles. "A very beautiful coin of the
Moguls. I keep it as a kind of mascot. I've had it for years, but left it
behind and it reached me from India only this morning. Having come away
without it I sent a cable for it to be forwarded on. And now! It's the
rottenest luck."
"What was it worth?" our hostess asked.
"Not very much. Thirty pounds perhaps. But that isn't it. The money is
nothing--it's the sentimental associations that make the loss so serious."
"Well," said a practical man, "you needn't despair. Ring up Scotland Yard
and ask them the best thing to do."
"Did you take the cabman's number?" some one asked.
"Of course he didn't," our hostess replied. "Who ever does a thing like
that?"
"As a matter of fact," said Sir Charles, "I sometimes do. But this time, of
course, I didn't." He groaned.
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