"The man is known," De Morbihan affirmed.
By now the conversation had caught the interest of several loitering waiters, who were listening open-mouthed. Even Roddy seemed a bit startled, and for once forgot to make business with his newspaper; but his wondering stare was exclusively for De Morbihan.
Lanyard put down knife and fork, swallowed a final mouthful of Haut Brion, and lighted a cigarette with the hand of a man who knew not the meaning of nerves.
"Garçon!" he called quietly; and ordered coffee and cigars, with a liqueur to follow….
"Known!" the American exclaimed. "They've caught him, eh?"
"I didn't say that," De Morbihan laughed; "but the mystery is no more—in certain quarters."
"Who is he, then?"
"That—monsieur will pardon me—I'm not yet free to state. Indeed, I may be indiscreet in saying as much as I do. Yet, among friends…"
His shrug implied that, as far as he was concerned, waiters were unhuman and the other guests of the establishment non-existent.
"But," the American persisted, "perhaps you can tell us how they got on his track?"