"I particularly wanted to meet you, Miss Challys. Indeed, I may say that since I saw you at the opera a week ago your face has really haunted me," said Flurscheim.
Meriel's eyebrows arched. She meditated flight.
"I'm afraid you must have thought me an awful bounder, staring at you the other night," he continued, "but your face was so familiar to me, and yet I could not recall where I had met you. It wasn't until after the opera was over that I remembered that one of my stolen miniatures was a most striking portrait of you; I hope that you will realise that my rudeness was unintentional."
"I certainly did not think so at the time," replied Meriel.
"It was quite a relief when I placed my memory," said the connoisseur. "D'you know that I'm one of those men that are made supremely uncomfortable by a lapse of memory of that sort. I begin to think my brain's failing if it doesn't respond at once to any call I make upon it, and after my recent worry I really began to be anxious."
"Did the burglary worry you so much as all that?" replied Meriel. Usually sympathetic to any story of trouble, she felt it difficult to express any sympathy with the loss the wealthy connoisseur had sustained.
"Worry me?" asked Flurscheim in an astonished tone. "Worry me?" he repeated. "Worry isn't the name for what I've gone through. I can see you don't understand what a collector's treasures mean to him. My dear young lady"—in his excitement an accent became audible which made of the words "ma tear young lady,"—"my pictures are what I've lived for. If I lose them my life is as empty—as empty"—he looked round for an appropriate simile and found one handy—"as most of these people's pockets."
Meriel smiled at the racial revelation. Flurscheim thought she smiled at the simile itself. "Fortunately it was only one of my pictures that was taken," he continued, "but"—he could not resist the wail—"it was the best of the lot. I would rather have lost any two of the others."
Meriel began to be interested in the man. He was manifestly honest in his confession. She even managed to infuse a little sympathy into her enquiry as to whether the police had obtained no clue to the thief. By so asking she struck another chord in the keyboard of the Flurscheim emotions.
"The police! Fools! Dolts! Idiots!" he exclaimed. "Of what use are the police but to strut about and direct the traffic? When it comes to catching thieves they are just about as useful as the pigeons in the parks. Some of them call themselves detectives," he continued with virulent scorn. "There's one of them called Kenly, an inspector with a reputation of being one of the smartest men at Scotland Yard! Got it, I should think, the same way as an owl gets a reputation for wisdom. Cocks his ears, opens his eyes wide, and keeps his mouth shut. For nearly six weeks he has been doing nothing else but investigate my robbery. And what has he found out? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Detectives, bah!" He pulled himself up with an effort. "I've promised myself I wouldn't talk about the matter to anyone, Miss Challys. I can't do so without losing my temper, and it will give you a very bad opinion of me if I have to apologise to you twice in one day."