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 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.
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