At The Villa Rose

"Monsieur," cried Perrichet, "something has been taken from this

room."

Hanaud looked round the room and shook his head.

"No," he said.

"But yes, monsieur," Perrichet insisted. "Oh, but yes. See! Upon

this dressing-table there was a small pot of cold cream. It stood

here, where my finger is, when we were in this room an hour ago.

Now it is gone."

Hanaud burst into a laugh.

"My friend Perrichet," he said ironically, "I will tell you the

newspaper did not do you justice. You are more intelligent. The

truth, my excellent friend, lies at the bottom of a well; but you

would find it at the bottom of a pot of cold cream. Now let us go.

For in this house, gentlemen, we have nothing more to do."

He passed out of the room. Perrichet stood aside, his face

crimson, his attitude one of shame. He had been rebuked by the

great M. Hanaud, and justly rebuked. He knew it now. He had wished

to display his intelligence--yes, at all costs he must show how

intelligent he was. And he had shown himself a fool. He should

have kept silence about that pot of cream.