She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl. Her hair was raven-black, but with lustrous highlights in it like the burnished feathers of a blackbird’s wing. It was rolled at the sides, presenting a look not unlike that of a coronet on her head. And, indeed, she was of the stuff from which princesses are made. Her features were small and regular and regal, and her smooth skin had an olive tint. Her figure was slim but flawless in line and curve. A proud, fiery aristocrat from some Mediterranean country, you would have said. And that would have been correct. The girl was from Spain. Her name on the register of the quiet little East Side hotel was Carol Haynes. But that was not the name she had been given at birth. At the moment the girl was looking at a small gold medallion, about the size of a quarter but a shade thicker. Since this was the night after the man had been slugged and robbed and then had killed two men in an unsuccessful attempt to get his medal back, it might have been assumed that this was that medal.
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