At The Villa Rose

He went back to Ricardo's sitting-room and flung himself into a

chair. He had been calm enough downstairs in the presence of the

doctor and the body of the victim. Now, with only Ricardo for a

witness, he gave way to distress.

"It is terrible," he said. "The poor woman! It was I who brought

her to Aix. It was through my carelessness. But who would have

thought--?" He snatched his hands from his face and stood up. "I

should have thought," he said solemnly. "Extraordinary daring--

that was one of the qualities of my criminal. I knew it, and I

disregarded it. Now we have a second crime."

"The skewer may lead you to the criminal," said Mr. Ricardo.

"The skewer!" cried Hanaud. "How will that help us? A knife, yes--

perhaps. But a skewer!"

"At the shops--there will not be so many in Aix at which you can

buy skewers--they may remember to whom they sold one within the

last day or so."

"How do we know it was bought in the last day or so?" cried Hanaud

scornfully. "We have not to do with a man who walks into a shop

and buys a single skewer to commit a murder with, and so hands

himself over to the police. How often must I say it!"

The violence of his contempt nettled Ricardo.

"If the murderer did not buy it, how did he obtain it?" he asked

obstinately.

"Oh, my friend, could he not have stolen it? From this or from any

hotel in Aix? Would the loss of a skewer be noticed, do you think?

How many people in Aix today have had rognons a la brochette for

their luncheon! Besides, it is not merely the death of this poor

woman which troubles me. We have lost the evidence which she was

going to bring to us. She had something to tell us about Celie

Harland which now we shall never hear. We have to begin all over

again, and I tell you we have not the time to begin all over

again. No, we have not the time. Time will be lost, and we have no

time to lose." He buried his face again in his hands and groaned

aloud. His grief was so violent and so sincere that Ricardo,

shocked as he was by the murder of Marthe Gobin, set himself to

console him.

"But you could not have foreseen that at three o'clock in the

afternoon at Aix--"

Hanaud brushed the excuse aside.

"It is no extenuation. I OUGHT to have foreseen. Oh, but I will

have no pity now," he cried, and as he ended the words abruptly

his face changed. He lifted a trembling forefinger and pointed.

There came a sudden look of life into his dull and despairing

eyes.