"Red Violets," said Adèle.
I opened the case.
They were both wrong.
The tray contained no perfume at all.
Crammed into the form of a scent-bottle was a dirty huddle of wash-leather.
I lifted it out between my finger and thumb.
The diamond and emerald necklace which lay beneath must have been worth a quarter of a million.
* * * * *
"Yes," said the British Vice-Consul, some two hours later, "this little seaside town is a sort of Thieves' Parlour. Four-fifths of the stuff that's stolen in Spain goes out of the country this way. As in the present case, the actual thief daren't try to cross the frontier, but he's always got an accomplice waiting at San Sebastian. We know the thieves all right—at least, the police do, but the accomplices are the devil. Often enough, they go no further than Biarritz, and there are so many of the Smart Set constantly floating between the two towns that they're frightfully hard to spot. In fact, about the only chance is to trace their connection with the thief. What I mean is this. A's got the jewels and he's got to pass them to B. That necessitates some kind of common denominator. Either they've got to meet or they've got to visit—at different times, of course—the same bureau….
"Well, there you are.