"That's Sir Charles," said our hostess; "there he is;" and a few moments later the guest we all awaited so fervently was in the room, full of apologies. "Never mind why you're late," said our hostess, "I'm sure you couldn't help it. Now we'll eat," and once again a dozen Londoners fell into ark- approaching formation and moved towards repletion. The party was familiar enough, after certain solvents of speech had been applied, for conversation to become general; and during the _entree_ we were all listening to Sir Charles telling the famous story of the eminent numismatist who, visiting the British Museum, was taken for a thief. By way of making the narration the more vivid he felt in his pocket for a coin with which to illustrate the dramatic crisis, when his expression became suddenly alarmed and fixed. "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. "No, it's gone for ever. The cabman will see it's gold and sell it. I wouldn't trust your modern taxi-chauffeur with anything." "If you would feel any happier," said our hostess, "do telephone now." "No," said Sir Charles, "no. It's no use. A coin like that would never be surrendered. It's too interesting; even a cabman would realise that. Umbrellas they'll take back, of course--umbrellas and bags, but not a goldmohur. He'll either keep it to show his pals in public-houses or have it fixed up as a brooch for his wife." As Sir Charles finished speaking and once more turned gloomily to his neglected plate the knocker was heard again to knock, and then one of the maids approached her mistress and spoke to her in low tones. Our hostess brightened. "Now, Sir Charles," she said, "perhaps you'll revise your opinion of our taxi-drivers. Tell Sir Charles what it is," she said to the maid.