"Captain Hugh Drummond, of Half Moon Street, London, is your man."
He glanced up at the American, who drained his cocktail with the air of a man who is satisfied with life.
"Captain Hugh Drummond, of Half Moon Street, London, is my man," he chuckled. "Well, Captain what about it now. Will you tell me why you've come to Paris? I guess it's something to do with the business I'm on."
For a few moments Hugh did not reply, and the American seemed in no hurry for an answer. Some early arrivals for dinner sauntered through the lounge, and Drummond watched them idly as they passed. The American detective certainly seemed all right, but…Casually, his glance rested on a man sitting just opposite, reading the paper. He took in the short, dark beard—the immaculate, though slightly foreign evening clothes; evidently a wealthy Frenchman giving a dinner party in the restaurant, by the way the head waiter was hovering around. And then suddenly his eyes narrowed, and he sat motionless.
"Are you interested in the psychology of gambling, Mr. Green?" he remarked, turning to the somewhat astonished American. "Some people cannot control their eyes or their mouth if the stakes are big; others cannot control their hands. For instance, the gentleman opposite. Does anything strike you particularly with regard to him?"
The detective glanced across the lounge.
"He seems to like hitting his knee with his left hand," he said, after a short inspection.
"Precisely," murmured Hugh. "That is why I came to Paris."
