But all along his train there was nobody that could be a disguised Flambeau, any more than a cat could be a disguised giraffe.About the people on the boat he had already satisfied himself; and the people picked up at Harwich or on the journey limited themselves with certainty to six.The little priest was so much the essence of those Eastern flats; he had a face as round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling; he had eyes as empty as the North Sea; he had several brown paper parcels, which he was quite incapable of collecting.The Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out of their local stagnation many such creatures, blind and helpless, like moles disinterred.He alighted at Liverpool Street, however, quite conscientiously secure that he had not missed the criminal so far.
But each of his thefts was almost a new sin, and would make a story by itself.
It was he who ran the great Tyrolean Dairy Company in London, with no dairies, no cows, no carts, no milk, but with some thousand subscribers.
These he served by the simple operation of moving the little milk cans outside people's doors to the doors of his own customers.
It is many years now since this colossus of crime suddenly ceased keeping the world in a turmoil; and when he ceased, as they said after the death of Roland, there was a great quiet upon the earth.
But in his best days (I mean, of course, his worst) Flambeau was a figure as statuesque and international as the Kaiser.