He was typically French,
--smooth-shaven, with a face seamed with little wrinkles and very
white, eyes shadowed by enormously bushy lashes, and close-cropped
hair as white as his face. But what attracted me most was the mouth
--a mouth at once delicate and humourous, a little large and with the
lips full enough to betoken vigour, yet not too full for fineness. He
was about sixty years of age, I guessed; and there was about him the
air of a man who had passed through a hundred remarkable experiences,
without once losing his aplomb. Certainly he was not going to lose it
now.
"The story which I have to relate," he began in his careful English,
clipping his words a little now and then, "has to do with the theft
of the famous Michaelovitch diamonds. You may, perhaps, remember the
case."
I remembered it, certainly, for the robbery had been conceived and
carried out with such brilliancy and daring that its details had at
once arrested my attention--to say nothing of the fact that the
diamonds, which formed the celebrated collection belonging to the
Grand Duke Michael, of Russia,--sojourning in Paris because
unappreciated in his native land and also because of the supreme
attraction of the French capital to one of his temperament--were
valued at something like eight million francs.
Pages:
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269