CHAPTER XXV

THE MICHAELOVITCH DIAMONDS


M. Pigot, cool and imperturbable, held out to us, with a little
smile, a hand which showed not a quiver of emotion--his gauntleted
hand; and I saw that, on the back of it, were two tiny depressions.
At the bottom of each depression lay a drop of bright red liquid--
blood-red, I told myself, as I stared at it, fascinated. And what
nerves of steel this man possessed! A sudden warmth of admiration for
him glowed within me. "That liquid, gentlemen," he said in his
smooth voice, "is the most powerful poison ever distilled by man.
Those two tiny drops would kill a score of people, and kill them
instantly. Its odour betrays its origin"--and, indeed, the air was
heavy with the scent of bitter almonds--"but the poison ordinarily
derived from that source is as nothing compared with this. This
poison is said to have been discovered by Rémy, the remarkable man
who brought about the death of the Duc d'Anjou. Its distillation was
supposed to be one of the lost arts, but the secret was rediscovered
by this man Crochard. No secret, indeed, is safe from him; criminal
history, criminal memoirs--the mysteries and achievements of the great
confederacy of crime which has existed for many centuries, and whose
existence few persons even suspect--all this is to him an open book.
It is this which renders him so formidable. No man can stand against
him. Even the secret of this drawer was known to him, and he availed
himself of it when need arose." M. Pigot paused, his head bent in
thought; and I seemed to be gazing with him down long avenues of crime,