I expected attempts at a loan or an extortion; but to collar
my signature to a blank cheque--atrocious!"
"How did he manage it?" I asked.
"I haven't the faintest conception. I only know those are the
words I wrote. I could swear to them anywhere."
"Then you can't protest the cheque?"
"Unfortunately, no; it's my own true signature."
We went that afternoon without delay to see the Chief Commissary
of Police at the office. He was a gentlemanly Frenchman, much less
formal and red-tapey than usual, and he spoke excellent English
with an American accent, having acted, in fact, as a detective in
New York for about ten years in his early manhood.
"I guess," he said slowly, after hearing our story, "you've been
victimised right here by Colonel Clay, gentlemen."
"Who is Colonel Clay?" Sir Charles asked.
"That's just what I want to know," the Commissary answered, in
his curious American-French-English. "He is a Colonel, because he
occasionally gives himself a commission; he is called Colonel Clay,
because he appears to possess an india-rubber face, and he can
mould it like clay in the hands of the potter. Real name, unknown.
Nationality, equally French and English. Address, usually Europe.
Profession, former maker of wax figures to the Musee Grevin.
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