"He isn't
particular. Medhurst he's called at home. _We_ call him Joe. I'll
send him round to your house this afternoon for certain."
"Oh no," Charles said promptly, "you won't; or Colonel Clay himself
will come instead of him. I've been sold too often. No casual
strangers! I'll wait here and see him."
"But he isn't in," Marvillier objected.
Charles was firm as a rock. "Then send and fetch him."
In half an hour, sure enough, the detective arrived. He was an
odd-looking small man, with hair cut short and standing straight up
all over his head, like a Parisian waiter. He had quick, sharp eyes,
very much like a ferret's; his nose was depressed, his lips thin and
bloodless. A scar marked his left cheek--made by a sword-cut, he
said, when engaged one day in arresting a desperate French smuggler,
disguised as an officer of Chasseurs d'Afrique. His mien was
resolute. Altogether, a quainter or 'cuter little man it has never
yet been my lot to set eyes on. He walked in with a brisk step,
eyed Charles up and down, and then, without much formality, asked
for what he was wanted.
"This is Sir Charles Vandrift, the great diamond king," Marvillier
said, introducing us.
"So I see," the man answered.
"Then you know me?" Charles asked.
"I wouldn't be worth much," the detective replied, "if I didn't
know everybody.
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