At The Villa Rose

"So that even before Marthe Gobin was killed you were sure that

Wethermill was the murderer?"

Hanaud's face clouded over.

"You put your finger on a sore place, M. Ricardo. I was sure, but

I still wanted evidence to convict. I left him free, hoping for

that evidence. I left him free, hoping that he would commit

himself. He did, but--well, let us talk of some one else. What of

Mlle. Celie?"

Ricardo drew a letter from his pocket.

"I have a sister in London, a widow," he said. "She is kind. I,

too, have been thinking of what will become of Mlle. Celie. I

wrote to my sister, and here is her reply. Mlle. Celie will be

very welcome."

Hanaud stretched out his hand and shook Ricardo's warmly.

"She will not, I think, be for very long a burden. She is young.

She will recover from this shock. She is very pretty, very gentle.

If--if no one comes forward whom she loves and who loves her--I--

yes, I myself, who was her papa for one night, will be her husband

forever."

He laughed inordinately at his own joke; it was a habit of M.

Hanaud's. Then he said gravely: "But I am glad, M. Ricardo, for Mlle. Celie's sake that I came to

your amusing dinner-party in London."

Mr. Ricardo was silent for a moment. Then he asked: "And what will happen to the condemned?"

"To the women? Imprisonment for life."

"And to the man?"

Hanaud shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps the guillotine. Perhaps New Caledonia. How can I say? I

am not the President of the Republic."