In half an hour, sure enough, the detective arrived. He was an odd-looking small man, with hair cut short and standing straight up all over his head, like a Parisian waiter. He had quick, sharp eyes, very much like a ferret's; his nose was depressed, his lips thin and bloodless. A scar marked his left cheek—made by a sword-cut, he said, when engaged one day in arresting a desperate French smuggler, disguised as an officer of Chasseurs d'Afrique. His mien was resolute. Altogether, a quainter or 'cuter little man it has never yet been my lot to set eyes on. He walked in with a brisk step, eyed Charles up and down, and then, without much formality, asked for what he was wanted.
This is Sir Charles Vandrift, the great diamond king,' Marvillier said, introducing us.
'So I see,' the man answered.
'Then you know me?' Charles asked.
'I wouldn't be worth much,' the detective replied, 'if I didn't know everybody. And you're easy enough to know; why, every boy in the street knows you.'
'Plain spoken!' Charles remarked.
'As you like it, sir,' the man answered in a respectful tone. 'I endeavour to suit my dress and behaviour on every occasion to the taste of my employers.'
'Your name?' Charles asked, smiling.
'Joseph Medhurst, at your service. What sort of work? Stolen diamonds? Illicit diamond-buying?'
