necklet and muff; patent
leather shoes and brown suede gloves.

"Any special mark or characteristics?"

"A white scar above the left temple," said Stenson.

Lord have mercy! The man has lived day by day for five months with
Carlotta's magical beauty, and all he has noticed as characteristic is
the little white scar--she fell on marble steps as a child--the only
flaw, if flaw can be in a thing so imperceptible, in her perfect
loveliness.

"Mademoiselle has also a tiny mole behind her right ear," said Stenson.

The Inspector's conception of Stenson expanded into an apotheosis. He
paid him deference. His pen wrote greedily every syllable the inspired
creature uttered. When the fount of inspiration ran dry, Stenson turned
to me with his imperturbable, profoundly respectful air.

"Shall I return home, Sir Marcus, or have you any further need of my
service?"

I bade him go home. He withdrew. The Inspector smiled cheerfully.
"Now we can get along," said he. "It's a pity Mr.--Mr. Pasquale" (he
consulted his notes) "is out of touch with us for the moment. He might
have given us great assistance."

He rose from his chair. "I think we shall very soon trace the
young lady. An accurate personal description like this, you see, is
invaluable."

He handed me the printed form which he had filled in. In spite of my
misery I almost laughed at the fatuity of the man in thinking that those
mere unimaginative statistics applicable to five hundred thousand young
females in London, could in any way express Carlotta.

"This is all very well," said I; "but the first thing to do is to lay
that Turkish devil by the heels."

"You can count on our making the most prompt and thorough
investigation," said he.

"And in the mean time what can I do?"

"Your best course, Sir Marcus," he answered, "is to go home and leave
things in our hands. As soon as ever we have the slightest clue, we
shall communicate with you."

He bowed me out politely. In a few moments I found myself in the
greyness of the autumn afternoon wandering on the Thames Embankment like
a lost soul on the banks of Phlegethon. It seemed as if I had never seen
the sun, should never see the sun again. I was drifting sans purpose
into eternity.

I passed by some railings. A colossal figure looming through the misty
air struck me with a sense of familiarity. It was the statue of Sir
Bartle Frere, and these were the gardens beneath the terrace of the
National Liberal Club. I