“Quite correct,” I replied.
“Allow me to present to you the carte of Mademoiselle Vera Seroff, and to introduce myself. Paul Volkhovski is my name, and—er—need I tell you the object of my visit?” he inquired, showing an even set of white teeth as he smiled.
“It is unnecessary,” I replied, glancing at the card he took from his wallet and handed to me. “The jewels are quite safe in that box upon the ottoman. The seals, you will notice, are untouched.”
“Merci,” he replied, a grin of satisfaction lighting up his countenance as he repeated, “The jewels—ah!”
Crossing quickly to where the box lay, he took it up and examined it minutely.
“Ha! harosho!” he exclaimed confidently, replacing it with care.
There was something peculiar in his manner which I could not fail to notice.
To tell the truth, I was rather disappointed in Vera’s friend. I had imagined that any friends of hers must be men with whom I could readily associate, whereas there was nothing beyond mere bourgeois respectability in Monsieur Volkhovski.
Somehow a feeling of suspicion crept over me.
It was possible some one had personated the man whom I was awaiting! At that moment it occurred to me that the means at my disposal to recognise him were exceedingly slight.