"There were, besides, the definite imprints of her shoes," said
Mr. Ricardo.
"Yes, but that is precisely where I began to feel sure that she
was innocent," replied Hanaud dryly. "All the other footmarks had
been so carefully scored and ploughed up that nothing could be
made of them. Yet those little ones remained so definite, so
easily identified, and I began to wonder why these, too, had not
been cut up and stamped over. The murderers had taken, you see, an
excess of precaution to throw the presumption of guilt upon Mlle.
Celie rather than upon Vauquier. However, there the footsteps
were. Mlle. Celie had sprung from the room as I described to
Wethermill. But I was puzzled. Then in the room I found the torn-
up sheet of notepaper with the words, 'Je ne sais pas,' in
mademoiselle's handwriting. The words might have been spirit-
writing, they might have meant anything. I put them away in my
mind. But in the room the settee puzzled me. And again I was
troubled--greatly troubled."
"Yes, I saw that."
"And not you alone," said Hanaud, with a smile. "Do you remember
that loud cry Wethermill gave when we returned to the room and
once more I stood before the settee? Oh, he turned it off very
well. I had said that our criminals in France were not very gentle
with their victims, and he pretended that it was in fear of what
Mlle. Celie might be suffering which had torn that cry from his
heart. But it was not so. He was afraid--deadly afraid--not for
Mlle. Celie, but for himself. He was afraid that I had understood
what these cushions had to tell me."
"What did they tell you?" asked Ricardo.
"You know now," said Hanaud. "They were two cushions, both
indented, and indented in different ways. The one at the head was
irregularly indented--something shaped had pressed upon it. It
might have been a face--it might not; and there was a little brown
stain which was fresh and which was blood. The second cushion had
two separate impressions, and between them the cushion was forced
up in a thin ridge; and these impressions were more definite. I
measured the distance between the two cushions, and I found this:
that supposing--and it was a large supposition--the cushions had
not been moved since those impressions were made, a girl of Mlle.
Celie's height lying stretched out upon the sofa would have her
face pressing down upon one cushion and her feet and insteps upon
the other. Now, the impressions upon the second cushion and the
thin ridge between them were just the impressions which might have
been made by a pair of shoes held close together. But that would
not be a natural attitude for any one, and the mark upon the head
cushion was very deep. Supposing that my conjectures were true,
then a woman would only lie like that because she was helpless,
because she had been flung there, because she could not lift
herself--because, in a word, her hands were tied behind her back
and her feet fastened together. Well, then, follow this train of
reasoning, my friend! Suppose my conjectures--and we had nothing
but conjectures to build upon-were true, the woman flung upon the
sofa could not be Helene Vauquier, for she would have said so; she
could have had no reason for concealment. But it must be Mlle.
Celie. There was the slit in the one cushion and the stain on the
other which, of course, I had not accounted for. There was still,
too, the puzzle of the footsteps outside the glass doors. If Mlle.
Celie had been bound upon the sofa, how came she to run with her
limbs free from the house? There was a question--a question not
easy to answer."