Monsieur Laurent, I will be awaiting your arrival promptly at 10'o'clock. I look forwards to our meeting. Théodore Berteaut.
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It was exactly a quarter to ten 'o'clock in the morning, and Monsieur Laurent was due to arrive at any moment. His family's possessions had been cleaned, carefully, the night before, and the tiara, glittering like the treasure it was, lay resting on a velvet cushion, tucked out of sight behind his desk, resting in a draw. It alone, he knew, was worth £300. Almost certainly more, although he had not managed to place the name of the maker. That was probably lost to time now, like the artists of many treasures. At least, however, it would go back home, if it's owner could pay his expenses. They were not too costly, he had thought, considering his difficulty in arranging to have the pieces disguised and carefully shipped across the channel.
He paused, glancing at the door again, before moving to his desk and flickering through he papers again. Laurent, Laurent. He knew that name. Not from the parties at the Palace, which in truth he never attended, but from somewhere else. Yet, he could not place it.