n the objective terms of the police report. What was she wearing? A
hat, and jacket, a skirt, shoes; of course she wore gloves; possibly she
carried a muff. Impatient of such commonplace details, I described her
fully. But the glory of her bronze hair, her great dark brown eyes,
the quivering sensitiveness of her lips; her intoxicating compound of
Botticelli and the Venusberg; the dove-notes of her voice; all was a
matter of boredom to Scotland Yard. They clamoured for the colour of
her feathers and the material of which her dress was made; her height in
vulgar figures and the sizes of her gloves and shoes.

"How on earth can I tell you?" I cried in desperation.

"Perhaps one of your servants can give the necessary information,"
replied the urbane official. If I had lost an umbrella he could not have
viewed my plight with more inhuman blandness!

A miracle happened. As I was writing a summons to Stenson to obtain
these details from Antoinette and attend at once, a policeman entered
and I learned that my confidential man was at the door. My heart
leapt within me. He had tracked me hither and had come to tell me that
Carlotta was safe. But the first glance at his face killed the wild
hope. He had tracked me hither, it is true; but only apologetically to
offer what information might be useful. "It is a very great liberty, Sir
Marcus, and I will retire at once if I have overstepped my duties, but
there are important details, sir, in catastrophes of this nature with
which my experience has taught me only servants can be acquainted."

There must be a book of ten thousand pages entitled "The Perfect Valet,"
dealing with every contingency of domestic life which this admirable
fellow has by heart. He uttered his Ciceronian sentence with the gravity
of a pasteboard figure in the toy theatre of one's childhood.

"Can you describe the young lady's dress?" asked the official.

"I have made it my business," said Stenson, "to obtain accurate
information as to every detail of Mademoiselle Carlotta's attire when
she left the house this morning."

I faded into insignificance. Stenson was a man after the Inspector's
heart. A few eager questions brought the desired result. A dark red
toque with a grey bird's wing; a wine-coloured zouave jacket and skirt,
black braided; a dark blue bodice; a plain gold brooch (the first
trinket I had given her--the occasion of her first clasp of arms around
my neck) fastening her collar; a silver fox