At The Villa Rose

Ricardo felt like a child in the presence of his schoolmaster. He

was convicted of presumption. He had set down his questions with

the belief that they covered the ground. And here were two of the

utmost importance, not forgotten, but never even thought of.

"Did she go, before the murder, to join a lover? Or after it? At

some time, you will remember, according to Vauquier's story, she

must have run upstairs to fetch her coat. Was the murder committed

during the interval when she was upstairs? Was the salon dark when

she came down again? Did she run through it quickly, eagerly,

noticing nothing amiss? And, indeed, how should she notice

anything if the salon were dark, and Mme. Dauvray's body lay under

the windows at the side?"

Ricardo leaned forward eagerly.

"That must be the truth," he cried; and Wethermill's voice broke

hastily in: "It is not the truth and I will tell you why. Celia Harland was to

have married me this week."

There was so much pain and misery in his voice that Ricardo was

moved as he had seldom been. Wethermill buried his face in his

hands. Hanaud shook his head and gazed across the table at Ricardo

with an expression which the latter was at no loss to understand.

Lovers were impracticable people. But he--Hanaud--he knew the

world. Women had fooled men before today.

Wethermill snatched his hands away from before his face.

"We talk theories," he cried desperately, "of what may have

happened at the villa. But we are not by one inch nearer to the

man and woman who committed the crime. It is for them we have to

search."

"Yes; but except by asking ourselves questions, how shall we find

them, M. Wethermill?" said Hanaud. "Take the man! We know nothing

of him. He has left no trace. Look at this town of Aix, where

people come and go like a crowd about the baccarat-table! He may

be at Marseilles today. He may be in this very room where we are

taking our luncheon. How shall we find him?"

Wethermill nodded his head in a despairing assent.

"I know. But it is so hard to sit still and do nothing," he cried.

"Yes, but we are not sitting still," said Hanaud; and Wethermill

looked up with a sudden interest. "All the time that we have been

lunching here the intelligent Perrichet has been making inquiries.

Mme. Dauvray and Mlle. Celie left the Villa Rose at five, and

returned on foot soon after nine with the strange woman. And there

I see Perrichet himself waiting to be summoned."

Hanaud beckoned towards the sergent-de-ville.

"Perrichet will make an excellent detective," he said; "for he

looks more bovine and foolish in plain clothes than he does in

uniform."

Perrichet advanced in his mufti to the table.