“Very simply,” said M. Pigot, coldly.  “Death came to Drouet and M. Vantine because the maid of Madame la Duchesse mistook her left hand for her right.  The drawer which contained the letters is at the left of the cabinet—­see,” and he pressed the series of springs, caught the little handle, and pulled the drawer open.  “You will notice that the letters are gone, for the drawer was opened by Madame la Duchesse herself, in the presence of M. Lestaire, who very gallantly permitted her to resume possession of them.  The drawer which Drouet and M. Vantine opened,” and here his voice became a little strident under the stress of great emotion, “is on the right side of the cabinet, exactly opposite the other, and opened by a similar combination.  But there is one great difference.  About the first drawer, there is nothing to harm any one; the other is guarded by the deadliest poison the world has ever known.  Observe me, gentlemen!” Impelled by an excitement so intense as to be almost painful, I had risen from my chair and drawn near to him.  As he spoke, he bent above the desk and pressed three fingers along the right edge.  There was a sharp click, and a section of the inlay fell outward, forming a handle, just as I had seen it do on the other side of the desk.  M. Pigot hesitated an instant—­any man would have hesitated before that awful risk!—­then, catching the handle firmly with his armoured hand, he drew it quickly out.  There was a sharp clash, as of steel on steel, and the drawer stood open.

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 Remy, 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