So far as failure is
concerned, never had any man failed so egregiously as I did with
Felini, a slippery criminal who possessed all the bravery of a
Frenchman and all the subtlety of an Italian. Three times he was in my
hands--twice in Paris, once in Marseilles--and each time he escaped
me; yet I was not dismissed.
When I say that Signor Felini was as brave as a Frenchman, perhaps I
do him a little more than justice. He was desperately afraid of one
man, and that man was myself. Our last interview in France he is not
likely to forget, and although he eluded me, he took good care to get
into England as fast as train and boat could carry him, and never
again, while I was at the head of the French detective force, did he
set foot on French soil. He was an educated villain, a graduate of the
University of Turin, who spoke Spanish, French, and English as well as
his own language, and this education made him all the more dangerous
when he turned his talents to crime.
Now, I knew Felini's handiwork, either in murder or in housebreaking,
as well as I know my own signature on a piece of white paper, and as
soon as I saw the body of the murdered man in Greenwich Park I was
certain Felini was the murderer.
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