"What do you mean ?" I asked with some sternness.
With that birdlike lightness and swiftness which were part of his manner, the Sicilian skipper bent forward and laid a brown finger on my wrist.
"Scusa, vi prego! But the hands are not those of a fisher of coral." I glanced down at them.

True enough, their smoothness and pliant shape betrayed my disguise--the gay little captain was sharp-witted enough to note the contrast between them and the rough garb I wore, though no one else with whom I had come in contact had been as keen of observation as he.

At first I was slightly embarrassed by his remark--but after a moment's pause I met his gaze frankly, and lighting my cigarette I said, carelessly: "Ebbene! And what then, my friend ?" He made a deprecatory gesture with his hands.
"Nay, nay, nothing--but only this.

The signor must understand he is perfectly safe with me.

My tongue is discreet--I talk of things only that concern myself.