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Updated: April 30, 2025
The black-gloved hand of the wizened, bristly-haired old man was the hand that controlled a great organization spread all over Europe an organization which only knew Il Passero by repute, but had never seen him in the flesh. Yet there he was, a discreet, rather petulant old gentleman, who lived at ease in an exclusive West End street, and was entirely unsuspected! When "Mr.
One was a squint-eyed little Cockney that misplaced his aitches, but was always on hand when you wanted anything. Another was a tall, lanky Swede who was always "Yust coomin', sir." Then there was the bristly-haired Hungarian we called Goulash. They'd all seemed harmless enough before; but now we took to sizin' 'em up close.
Slimly and straightly he had shot up into an unmannered, a short, even a bristly-haired young manhood, disqualifying by a close shave for the older school of hirsute virtuosity. But his nerves did not spare him. On concert nights they seemed to emerge almost to the surface of him and shriek their exposure. "Just feel my hands, ma. Like ice."
The crowds surged along the wet sidewalks and overflowed into the street, and over the heads of the people I stared at the blazing shop-windows decked out in Christmas greens. My chauffeur, a bristly-haired Parisian, blew his horn insolently, men and women jostled each other to get out of the way, their holiday mood giving place to resentment as they stared into the windows of the limousine.
"Oh! A bit of bad luck eh? Nearly found out, have you been? Ah! All of us have our narrow escapes. I've had many in my time," and he grinned. "So have all of us," laughed the bristly-haired man. "But tell me, Henfrey, why have you come to see me so quickly?" "Because they know where I'm in hiding!" "They know? Who knows?"
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