If we knew the port of arrival we could pick up
the clever gentleman who comes to take away the horses. But
what's the port - English, French or Dutch? There are a score of
ports." He struck the paper with his hand. "It's there, my word
for it, if we could only decode the thing."
Then he stood up, his face lifted, his fingers linked behind his
back. He crossed the room and stood looking out at the thin
yellow fog drifting over Piccadilly Circus. Finally he came
back, gathered up his papers and put them in the pocket of his
big tweed coat.
"There's one man in Europe," he said, "who can read this thing.
That's the Swiss expert criminologist, old Arnold, of Zurich.
He's lecturing at the Sorbonne in Paris. I'm going to see him."
Then he went out.
Now that, as has been said, is how the thing began. It was the
first episode in the series of events that began to go forward on
this extraordinary night. One will say that the purchasing agent
for a great New York jewel house ought to be accustomed to
adventures. The writers of romance have stimulated that fancy.
But the fact is that such persons are practical people.
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