"I haven't a pocket, you see. No self-respecting woman could
have, in a gown like this. I don't know in the least what sort of 'gift'
my old friend is supposed to have brought me. Is it large or small? I'll
take off my gloves and let you see my rings, if you like, Monsieur le
Commisaire, for I've been taught, as a servant of the public, to be
civil to my fellow servants, even if they should be unreasonable. No?
You don't want to see my rings? Let me oblige you by taking off my hat,
then. I might have put the thing--whatever it is--in my hair."
As she spoke, she drew out her hatpins, still laughing in a half
scornful, half good-natured way. She was bewitching as she stood
smiling, with her black hat and veil in her hand, the ruffled waves of
her dark red hair shadowing her forehead.
Meanwhile, fired by her example, I turned out the contents of my
pockets: a letter or two; a flat gold cigarette case; a match box; my
watch, and a handkerchief: also in an outer pocket of my coat, a small
bit of crumpled paper of which I had no recollection: but as one of the
gendarmes politely picked it up from the floor, where it had fallen, and
handed it to me without examining it, mechanically I slipped it back
into the pocket, and thought no more of it at the time.
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