"What I have to tell you, sir," began M. Pigot, in a voice as hard as
steel and cold as ice, "has, understand well, to be told in
confidence. It must remain between ourselves until the criminal is
secured."

Grady's smile hardened a little. Perhaps he did not like the
imperatives. At any rate, he ignored the hint.

"Understand, Mr. Lester?" he asked, looking at me, and I nodded.

I saw Pigot's eyes flame and his face flush with anger, for Grady's
tone was almost insulting. For an instant I thought that he would
refuse to proceed; but he controlled himself.

Standing there facing me, in the full light, it was possible for me
to examine him much more closely than had been possible on board the
boat, and I looked at him with interest. He was typically French,
--smooth-shaven, with a face seamed with little wrinkles and very
white, eyes shadowed by enormously bushy lashes, and close-cropped
hair as white as his face. But what attracted me most was the mouth
--a mouth at once delicate and humourous, a little large and with the
lips full enough to betoken vigour, yet not too full for fineness. He
was about sixty years of age, I guessed; and there was about him the
air of a man who had passed through a hundred remarkable experiences,
without once losing his aplomb. Certainly he was not going to lose it
now.

"The story which I have to relate," he began in his careful English,
clipping his words a little now and then, "has to do with the theft
of the famous Michaelovitch diamonds. You may, perhaps, remember the