The birch logs in the fireplace crackled, as Arthur thrust a silver letter opener into the sealing wax, while the cold wind from Moscow beat against the iron window bars.
He recognized the crest hand-drawn on the letterhead, one he could even call familiar—the golden bees of the Bonaparte family seemed ready to take flight under the candlelight.
"Your Excellency?" Blackwell paused, holding a Turkish coffee pot aloft, with ink dripping from the tilted spout onto the Persian carpet: "Is this an urgent letter forwarded from Paris?"
Arthur didn't answer. The scrawled French on the parchment carried the scent of gunpowder, and he seemed to see before him Louis Bonaparte wearing a Scotland Yard uniform, clutching a stack of files as he hurried through the office.
Unfortunately, the sender of this letter was not Louis, but another old friend in Paris, Francois Vidocq, the Parisian Sleuth.
Although Arthur had left Paris for a year, they still maintained close personal correspondence.
