Many times Moris Klaw knocked upon the door of the house in Clapham Old Town, a small one, standing well back from the roadway. Within we could hear someone coughing.
Then the door was suddenly thrown open, and a man appeared who must have stood some six feet three inches. He had finely chiselled features, was clean-shaven, and wore pince-nez.
Klaw said a thing that had a surprising effect.
“What!” he rumbled, “has Nina caught cold?”
The other glared, with a sudden savagery coming into his eyes, fell back a step, and clenched his great fists.
“Enough, Jean Colette!” said Morris Klaw, “you do not know me, but I know you. Attempt no tricks, or it is the police and not a meddlesome, harmless old fool who will come. Enter, Jean! We follow.”
For a moment longer the big man hesitated, and I saw the shadows of alternate resolves passing across his fine features. Then clearly he saw that surrender was inevitable, shrugged his shoulders, and stared hard at my companion.
“Enter, messieurs,” he said, with a marked French accent.
He said no more, but led the way into a long, bare room at the rear of the house. To term the apartment a laboratory would be correct but not inclusive; for it was, in addition, a studio and a workshop. Glancing rapidly around him, Moris Klaw asked, “Where is it?”
The man’s face was a study as he stood before us, looking from one to the other. Then a peculiar smile, indescribably winning, played around his lips. “You are very clever, and I know when I am beaten,” he remarked; “but had you come four hours later it would have been one hour too late.”
He strode up the room to where a tall screen stood, and, seizing it by the top, hurled it to the ground.
Behind, on a model’s dais, reclined the statue of Nicris, in a low chair!
“You have already removed the girdle and one of the anklets,” rumbled Klaw.
This was true. Indeed, it now became evident that the man had been interrupted in his task by our arrival. Opening a leather case that stood upon the floor by the dais, he produced the missing ornaments.
“What action is to be taken, messieurs?” he asked, quietly.
“No action, Jean,” replied Moris Klaw. “It is impossible, you see. But why did you delay so long?”
The other’s reply was unexpected.
“It is a task demanding much time and care, if the statue is not to be ruined; otherwise I should have performed it in Mr. Paxton’s studio instead of going to the trouble of removing the figure--and---- Nina’s condition has caused me grave anxiety throughout the night.” He stared hard at Moris Klaw. We could hear the sound of coughing from some room hard by. “Who are you, m’sieur?” he asked, pointedly.
“An old fool who knew Nina when she posed at Julien’s, Jean,” was the reply, “and who knew you, also, in Paris.”
