At The Villa Rose

There were as yet only two couples dining in the restaurant, and

Hanaud spoke so that neither could overhear him. He sat down at

the table.

"What news?" he asked.

"None," said Lemerre. "No one has come out of the house, no one

has gone in."

"And if anything happens while we dine?"

"We shall know," said Lemerre. "Look, there is a man loitering

under the trees there. He will strike a match to light his pipe."

The hurried conversation was ended.

"Good," said Hanaud. "We will dine, then, and be gay."

He called to the waiter and ordered dinner. It was after seven

when they sat down to dinner, and they dined while the dusk

deepened. In the street below the lights flashed out, throwing a

sheen on the foliage of the trees at the water's side. Upon the

dark lake the reflections of lamps rippled and shook. A boat in

which musicians sang to music, passed by with a cool splash of

oars. The green and red lights of the launches glided backwards

and forwards. Hanaud alone of the party on the balcony tried to

keep the conversation upon a light and general level. But it was

plain that even he was overdoing his gaiety. There were moments

when a sudden contraction of the muscles would clench his hands

and give a spasmodic jerk to his shoulders. He was waiting

uneasily, uncomfortably, until darkness should come.

"Eat," he cried--"eat, my friends," playing with his own barely

tasted food.

And then, at a sentence from Lemerre, his knife and fork clattered

on his plate, and he sat with a face suddenly grown white.

For Lemerre said, as though it was no more than a matter of

ordinary comment: "So Mme. Dauvray's jewels were, after all, never stolen?"

Hanaud started.

"You know that? How did you know it?"

"It was in this evening's paper. I bought one on the way here.

They were found under the floor of the bedroom."

And even as he spoke a newsboy's voice rang out in the street

below them. Lemerre was alarmed by the look upon his friend's

face.

"Does it matter, Hanaud?" he asked, with some solicitude.

"It matters--" and Hanaud rose up abruptly.

The boy's voice sounded louder in the street below. The words

became distinct to all upon that balcony.

"The Aix murder! Discovery of the jewels!"

"We must go," Hanaud whispered hoarsely. "Here are life and death

in the balance, as I believe, and there"--he pointed down to the

little group gathering about the newsboy under the trees--"there

is the command which way to tip the scales."

"It was not I who sent it," said Ricardo eagerly.

He had no precise idea what Hanaud meant by his words; but he

realised that the sooner he exculpated himself from the charge the

better.