At The Villa Rose

"Listen!" she continued, "I will tell you what I think. It was my

habit to put out some sirop and lemonade and some little cakes in

the dining-room, which, as you know, is at the other side of the

house across the hall. I think it possible, messieurs, that while

Mlle. Celie was changing her dress Mme. Dauvray and the stranger,

Adele, went into the dining-room. I know that Mlle. Celie, as soon

as she was dressed, ran downstairs to the salon. Well, then,

suppose Mlle. Celie had a lover waiting with whom she meant to run

away. She hurries through the empty salon, opens the glass doors,

and is gone, leaving the doors open. And the thief, an accomplice

of Adele, finds the doors open and hides himself in the salon

until Mme. Dauvray returns from the dining-room. You see, that

leaves Mlle. Celie innocent."

Vauquier leaned forward eagerly, her white face flushing. There

was a moment's silence, and then Hanaud said: "That is all very well, Mlle. Vauquier. But it does not account

for the lace coat in which the girl went away. She must have

returned to her room to fetch that after you had gone to bed."

Helene Vauquier leaned back with an air of disappointment.

"That is true. I had forgotten the coat. I did not like Mlle.

Celie, but I am not wicked--"

"Nor for the fact that the sirop and the lemonade had not been

touched in the dining-room," said the Commissaire, interrupting

her.

Again the disappointment overspread Vauquier's face.

"Is that so?" she asked. "I did not know--I have been kept a

prisoner here."

The Commissaire cut her short with a cry of satisfaction.

"Listen! listen!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Here is a theory which

accounts for all, which combines Vauquier's idea with ours, and

Vauquier's idea is, I think, very just, up to a point. Suppose, M.

Hanaud, that the girl was going to meet her lover, but the lover

is the murderer. Then all becomes clear. She does not run away to

him; she opens the door for him and lets him in."

Both Hanaud and Ricardo stole a glance at Wethermill. How did he

take the theory? Wethermill was leaning against the wall, his eyes

closed, his face white and contorted with a spasm of pain. But he

had the air of a man silently enduring an outrage rather than

struck down by the conviction that the woman he loved was

worthless.

"It is not for me to say, monsieur," Helene Vauquier continued. "I

only tell you what I know. I am a woman, and it would be very

difficult for a girl who was eagerly expecting her lover so to act

that another woman would not know it. However uncultivated and

ignorant the other woman was, that at all events she would know.

The knowledge would spread to her of itself, without a word.

Consider, gentlemen!" And suddenly Helene Vauquier smiled. "A

young girl tingling with excitement from head to foot, eager that

her beauty just at this moment should be more fresh, more sweet

than ever it was, careful that her dress should set it exquisitely

off. Imagine it! Her lips ready for the kiss! Oh, how should

another woman not know? I saw Mlle. Celie, her cheeks rosy, her

eyes bright. Never had she looked so lovely. The pale-green hat

upon her fair head heavy with its curls! From head to foot she

looked herself over, and then she sighed--she sighed with pleasure

because she looked so pretty. That was Mlle. Celie last night,

monsieur. She gathered up her train, took her long white gloves in

the other hand, and ran down the stairs, her heels clicking on the

wood, her buckles glittering. At the bottom she turned and said to

me: "'Remember, Helene, you can go to bed.' That was it monsieur."