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 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.”