Cleek

PROLOGUE

THE AFFAIR OF THE MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF HAMILTON CLEEK


The thing wouldn't have happened if any other constable than Collins had
been put on point duty at Blackfriars Bridge that morning. For Collins
was young, good-looking, and--knew it. Nature had gifted him with a
susceptible heart and a fond eye for the beauties of femininity. So when
he looked round and saw the woman threading her way through the maze of
vehicles at "Dead Man's Corner," with her skirt held up just enough to
show two twinkling little feet in French shoes, and over them a
graceful, willowy figure, and over that an enchanting, if rather too
highly tinted face, with almond eyes and a fluff of shining hair under
the screen of a big Parisian hat--that did for him on the spot.

He saw at a glance that she was French--exceedingly French--and he
preferred English beauty, as a rule. But, French or English, beauty is
beauty, and here undeniably was a perfect type, so he unhesitatingly
sprang to her assistance and piloted her safely to the kerb, revelling
in her voluble thanks, and tingling as she clung timidly but rather
firmly to him.