At The Villa Rose

Wethermill stirred uneasily in his seat. His face flushed. To Mr.

Ricardo that had been from the beginning the most interesting

problem of the case. Was he to have the answer now?

"I do not know," answered Wethermill, with some hesitation, and

then it seemed that he was at once ashamed of his hesitation. His

accent gathered strength, and in a low but ringing voice, he

added: "But I say this. You have told me, M. Hanaud, of women who

looked innocent and were guilty. But you know also of women and

girls who can live untainted and unspoilt amidst surroundings

which are suspicious."

Hanaud listened, but he neither agreed nor denied. He took up a

second slip of paper.

"I shall tell you something now of Mme. Dauvray," he said. "We

will not take up her early history. It might not be edifying and,

poor woman, she is dead. Let us not go back beyond her marriage

seventeen years ago to a wealthy manufacturer of Nancy, whom she

had met in Paris. Seven years ago M. Dauvray died, leaving his

widow a very rich woman. She had a passion for jewellery, which

she was now able to gratify. She collected jewels. A famous

necklace, a well-known stone--she was not, as you say, happy till

she got it. She had a fortune in precious stones--oh, but a large

fortune! By the ostentation of her jewels she paraded her wealth

here, at Monte Carlo, in Paris. Besides that, she was kind-hearted

and most impressionable. Finally, she was, like so many of her

class, superstitious to the degree of folly."

Suddenly Mr. Ricardo started in his chair. Superstitious! The word

was a sudden light upon his darkness. Now he knew what had

perplexed him during the last two days. Clearly--too clearly--he

remembered where he had seen Celia Harland, and when. A picture

rose before his eyes, and it seemed to strengthen like a film in a

developing-dish as Hanaud continued: "Very well! take Mme. Dauvray as we find her--rich, ostentatious,

easily taken by a new face, generous, and foolishly superstitious-

-and you have in her a living provocation to every rogue. By a

hundred instances she proclaimed herself a dupe. She threw down a

challenge to every criminal to come and rob her. For seven years

Helene Vauquier stands at her elbow and protects her from serious

trouble. Suddenly there is added to her--your young friend, and

she is robbed and murdered. And, follow this, M. Wethermill, our

thieves are, I think, more brutal to their victims than is the

case with you."