At The Villa Rose

"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."