At The Villa Rose

It was on a Monday evening that Ricardo saw Harry Wethermill and

the girl Celia together. On the Tuesday he saw Wethermill in the

rooms alone and had some talk with him.

Wethermill was not playing that night, and about ten o'clock the

two men left the Villa des Fleurs together.

"Which way do you go?" asked Wethermill.

"Up the hill to the Hotel Majestic," said Ricardo.

"We go together, then. I, too, am staying there," said the young

man, and they climbed the steep streets together. Ricardo was

dying to put some questions about Wethermill's young friend of the

night before, but discretion kept him reluctantly silent. They

chatted for a few moments in the hall upon indifferent topics and

so separated for the night. Mr. Ricardo, however, was to learn

something more of Celia the next morning; for while he was fixing

his tie before the mirror Wethermill burst into his dressing-room.

Mr. Ricardo forgot his curiosity in the surge of his indignation.

Such an invasion was an unprecedented outrage upon the gentle

tenor of his life. The business of the morning toilette was

sacred. To interrupt it carried a subtle suggestion of anarchy.

Where was his valet? Where was Charles, who should have guarded

the door like the custodian of a chapel?

"I cannot speak to you for at least another half-hour," said Mr.

Ricardo, sternly.

But Harry Wethermill was out of breath and shaking with agitation.

"I can't wait," he cried, with a passionate appeal. "I have got to

see you. You must help me, Mr. Ricardo--you must, indeed!"

Ricardo spun round upon his heel. At first he had thought that the

help wanted was the help usually wanted at Aix-les-Bains. A glance

at Wethermills face, however, and the ringing note of anguish in

his voice, told him that the thought was wrong. Mr. Ricardo

slipped out of his affectations as out of a loose coat. "What has

happened?" he asked quietly.

"Something terrible." With shaking fingers Wethermill held out a

newspaper. "Read it," he said.

It was a special edition of a local newspaper, Le Journal de

Savoie, and it bore the date of that morning.

"They are crying it in the streets," said Wethermill. "Read!"

A short paragraph was printed in large black letters on the first

page, and leaped to the eyes.

"Late last night," it ran, "an appalling murder was committed at

the Villa Rose, on the road to Lac Bourget. Mme. Camille Dauvray,

an elderly, rich woman who was well known at Aix, and had occupied

the villa every summer for the last few years, was discovered on

the floor of her salon, fully dressed and brutally strangled,

while upstairs, her maid, Helene Vauquier, was found in bed,

chloroformed, with her hands tied securely behind her back. At the

time of going to press she had not recovered consciousness, but

the doctor, Emile Peytin, is in attendance upon her, and it is

hoped that she will be able shortly to throw some light on this

dastardly affair. The police are properly reticent as to the

details of the crime, but the following statement may be accepted

without hesitation: "The murder was discovered at twelve o'clock at night by the

sergent-de-ville Perrichet, to whose intelligence more than a word

of praise is due, and it is obvious from the absence of all marks

upon the door and windows that the murderer was admitted from

within the villa. Meanwhile Mme. Dauvray's motor-car has

disappeared, and with it a young Englishwoman who came to Aix with

her as her companion. The motive of the crime leaps to the eyes.

Mme. Dauvray was famous in Aix for her jewels, which she wore with

too little prudence. The condition of the house shows that a

careful search was made for them, and they have disappeared. It is

anticipated that a description of the young Englishwoman, with a

reward for her apprehension, will be issued immediately. And it is

not too much to hope that the citizens of Aix, and indeed of

Prance, will be cleared of all participation in so cruel and

sinister a crime."