At The Villa Rose

"But this is yesterday's paper!" he said.

"Yesterday evening's paper," Hanaud corrected.

"Printed at Geneva!"

"Printed, and published and sold at Geneva," said Hanaud.

"When did you send the advertisement in, then?"

"I wrote a letter while we were taking our luncheon," Hanaud

explained. "The letter was to Besnard, asking him to telegraph the

advertisement at once."

"But you never said a word about it to us," Ricardo grumbled.

"No. And was I not wise?" said Hanaud, with complacency. "For you

would have forbidden me to use your name."

"Oh, I don't go so far as that," said Ricardo reluctantly. His

indignation was rapidly evaporating. For there was growing up in

his mind a pleasant perception that the advertisement placed him

in the limelight.

He rose from his bed.

"You will make yourself comfortable in the sitting-room while I

have my bath."

"I will, indeed," replied Hanaud cheerily. "I have already ordered

my morning chocolate. I have hopes that you may have a telegram

very soon. This paper was cried last night through the streets of

Geneva."

Ricardo dressed for once in a way with some approach to ordinary

celerity, and joined Hanaud.

"Has nothing come?" he asked.

"No. This chocolate is very good; it is better than that which I

get in my hotel."

"Good heavens!" cried Ricardo, who was fairly twittering with

excitement. "You sit there talking about chocolate while my cup

shakes in my fingers."

"Again I must remind you that you are the amateur, I the

professional, my friend."

As the morning drew on, however, Hanaud's professional quietude

deserted him. He began to start at the sound of footsteps in the

corridor, to glance every other moment from the window, to eat his

cigarettes rather than to smoke them. At eleven o'clock Ricardo's

valet brought a telegram into the room. Ricardo seized it.

"Calmly, my friend," said Hanaud.

With trembling fingers Ricardo tore it open. He jumped in his

chair. Speechless, he handed the telegram to Hanaud. It had been

sent from Geneva, and it ran thus: "Expect me soon after three.--MARTHE GOBIN."

Hanaud nodded his head.

"I told you I had hopes." All his levity had gone in an instant

from his manner. He spoke very quietly.

"I had better send for Wethermill?" asked Ricardo.

Hanaud shrugged his shoulders.

"As you like. But why raise hopes in that poor man's breast which

an hour or two may dash for ever to the ground? Consider! Marthe

Gobin has something to tell us. Think over those eight points of

evidence which you drew up yesterday in the Villa des Fleurs, and

say whether what she has to tell us is more likely to prove Mlle.

Celie's innocence than her guilt. Think well, for I will be guided

by you, M. Ricardo," said Hanaud solemnly. "If you think it better

that your friend should live in torture until Marthe Gobin comes,

and then perhaps suffer worse torture from the news she brings, be

it so. You shall decide. If, on the other hand, you think it will

be best to leave M. Wethermill in peace until we know her story,

be it so. You shall decide."