“19—let me see, 1911 and 1912, those were the years I spent in Petersburg. My father was a man of great wisdom, and great foresight. He was expert in porcelain, you know, but jewels are my great love—always have been. He saw that when I was a mere youngster, and encouraged it. Wonderful man. Liberal. Nothing of the narrow specialist in him. Sent me abroad to study and gain experience. France, Germany, Russia—unforgettable.”

“And at Petersburg you met—”

“Fabergé. A great master, and a very charming, kindly man. There were, of course, others. Britzin, Khlebnikov, Tillander—I had letters of introduction to all of them. But Fabergé, sir, was outstanding. I studied chiefly with Wigstrom, Henrik Wigstrom, you know, one of Fabergé’s workmasters, I consider him to have been the greatest.”

“And the Princess?” Nightingale tried to steer the conversation a little nearer his goal.

“But of course! That was how I was brought to the notice of the Karukhin family. I remember going to the palace with Michael Kulp—a German, you know, one of Wigstrom’s assistants. Such a privilege to be allowed to accompany him. My dear sir, if you could have seen the Karukhin palace! So difficult for young people to imagine the sheer lavishness of that vanished age!”

“You went to the palace—”

“Indeed yes. Prince Semeon Karukhin built it, in the days of Catherine, you know, but each generation added something—the private theatre, for example, the Roman Bath, the hothouses. Vast building! Two ballrooms, two banqueting rooms, a whole chain of salons—one in which only Grand Dukes were received, another for princes, another for lesser nobles, and so on—salons for music, for chess, for tea, for fruit and lemonade.”

“And the Princess?” repeated Nightingale gently, repressing a boorish desire to ask where the Karukhins had received tradespeople.

“Had ordered half a dozen parasol handles. We were submitting designs for her approval. How well I remember. Impossible at first, you know, not to be overawed. The Princess was a formidable person. She treated me, however, to a signal mark of condescension—addressed me in French, then and thereafter. Never forgot.”

“You saw her again?”

“Several times—and her husband, Prince Sevastyan. He used to come to Fabergé for presents as a regular thing. So many did. His son, too, Prince Ilarion. I remember him spending a couple of hours deciding between two enamelled powder boxes for his mother’s name-day gift. He preferred trinkets—his youth, I suppose. His father invariably gave jewellery—for the anniversary of their wedding-day, I remember, a magnificent parure of emeralds and diamonds. We delivered it on the previous evening. They were giving a ball—hardly a night passed, you know, but there was some form of assembly at the palace. Magnificent—roses and candelabra everywhere—and what beautiful chandeliers!”

Mr. Majendie, who was stretched almost horizontally in his chair, sighed nostalgically.

“So the name Karukhin alone would entitle a letter to serious consideration,” said Nightingale, “even if there hadn’t been the diamond and ruby brooch in the twenties, and even if the address were somewhat startling.”