“Why do you ask?”
“I saw you looking at them. Are they not very strong?”
“They seem to be.”
“They are. There are no hands in Paris like them. They are the most famous hands in all this city.”
Frank wondered what the man could mean by all this.
“What do I care about your hands!” he cried, forgetting for the moment his assumption of suavity. “I did not stop here to talk of them.”
“No, monsieur; you stopped here because the door was closed.”
“I believe you are right.”
The Frenchman bowed.
“I am sure I am right,” he said. “But I saw you looking at my hands. They attracted your attention. It is not strange. They are very strong. Look.”