At The Villa Rose

Julius Ricardo pushed aside the curtains with a thrill of

excitement. He found himself standing within a small oblong room

which was prettily, even daintily, furnished. On his left, close

by the recess, was a small fireplace with the ashes of a burnt-out

fire in the grate. Beyond the grate a long settee covered in pink

damask, with a crumpled cushion at each end, stood a foot or two

away from the wall, and beyond the settee the door of the room

opened into the hall. At the end a long mirror was let into the

panelling, and a writing-table stood by the mirror. On the right

were the three windows, and between the two nearest to Mr. Ricardo

was the switch of the electric light. A chandelier hung from the

ceiling, an electric lamp stood upon the writing-table, a couple

of electric candles on the mantel-shelf. A round satinwood table

stood under the windows, with three chairs about it, of which one

was overturned, one was placed with its back to the electric

switch, and the third on the opposite side facing it.

Ricardo could hardly believe that he stood actually upon the spot

where, within twelve hours, a cruel and sinister tragedy had taken

place. There was so little disorder. The three windows on his

right showed him the blue sunlit sky and a glimpse of flowers and

trees; behind him the glass doors stood open to the lawn, where

birds piped cheerfully and the trees murmured of summer. But he

saw Hanaud stepping quickly from place to place, with an

extraordinary lightness of step for so big a man, obviously

engrossed, obviously reading here and there some detail, some

custom of the inhabitants of that room.

Ricardo leaned with careful artistry against the wall.

"Now, what has this room to say to me?" he asked importantly.

Nobody paid the slightest attention to his question, and it was

just as well. For the room had very little information to give

him. He ran his eye over the white Louis Seize furniture, the

white panels of the wall, the polished floor, the pink curtains.

Even the delicate tracery of the ceiling did not escape his

scrutiny. Yet he saw nothing likely to help him but an overturned

chair and a couple of crushed cushions on a settee. It was very

annoying, all the more annoying because M. Hanaud was so

uncommonly busy. Hanaud looked carefully at the long settee and

the crumpled cushions, and he took out his measure and measured

the distance between the cushion at one end and the cushion at the

other. He examined the table, he measured the distance between the

chairs. He came to the fireplace and raked in the ashes of the

burnt-out fire. But Ricardo noticed a singular thing. In the midst

of his search Hanaud's eyes were always straying back to the

settee, and always with a look of extreme perplexity, as if he

read there something, definitely something, but something which he

could not explain. Finally he went back to it; he drew it farther

away from the wall, and suddenly with a little cry he stooped and

went down on his knees. When he rose he was holding some torn

fragments of paper in his hand. He went over to the writing-table

and opened the blotting-book. Where it fell open there were some

sheets of note-paper, and one particular sheet of which half had

been torn off. He compared the pieces which he held with that torn

sheet, and seemed satisfied.