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Updated: June 25, 2025


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.

It moved over the water like a shadow, with not so much as a curl of white at its bows. Lemerre touched Hanaud on the shoulder and pointed to a house in a row of houses. All the windows except two upon the second floor and one upon the ground floor were in absolute darkness, and over those upper two the wooden shutters were closed.

The action was significant enough. This room, at all events, was not empty. But of what Lemerre saw in the room his face gave no hint. He opened the door wider, and now Hanaud saw. Ricardo, trembling with excitement, watched him. But again there was no expression of surprise, consternation, or delight. He stood stolidly and watched.

Then in the room I found the torn-up sheet of notepaper with the words, 'Je ne sais pas, in mademoiselle's handwriting. The words might have been spirit-writing, they might have meant anything. I put them away in my mind. But in the room the settee puzzled me. And again I was troubled greatly troubled." "Yes, I saw that." "And not you alone," said Hanaud, with a smile.

"I cannot help it," he said; "I have an eye for dramatic effects. I must prepare for them when I know they are coming. And one, I tell you, is coming now." He shook his finger at his companions. Ricardo shifted and shuffled in his chair. Harry Wethermill kept his eyes fixed on Hanaud's face, but he was quiet, as he had been throughout the long inquiry. Hanaud lit a cigarette and took his time.

"Was any petrol taken?" asked Hanaud. "Yes, monsieur; there was very little petrol in the car when I went away. More was taken, but it was taken from the middle tins these." And he touched the tins. "I see," said Hanaud, and he raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. The Commissaire moved with impatience. "From the middle or from the end what does it matter?" he exclaimed. "The petrol was taken."

But in that room he had read something which had troubled him, which had raised the sordid crime on to some higher and perplexing level. "Then M. Fleuriot after all might be right?" asked the Commissaire timidly. Hanaud stared at him for a second, then smiled. "L'affaire Dreyfus?" he cried. "Oh la, la, la! No, but there is something else." What was that something? Ricardo asked himself.

The only ones which fit at all are those taken from Celie Harland's bedroom." He called to an officer standing in the drive, and a pair of grey suede shoes were brought to him from the hall. "See, M. Hanaud, it is a pretty little foot which made those clear impressions," he said, with a smile; "a foot arched and slender. Mme. Dauvray's foot is short and square, the maid's broad and flat.

Hanaud need not fear. He would not frighten her. He would be gentle, he would be cunning. Softly and delicately he would turn this good woman inside out, like a glove. Every artistic fibre in his body vibrated to the dramatic situation. Suddenly Hanaud leaned out of the window. "It comes! it comes!" he said in a quick, feverish whisper. "I can see the cab between the shrubs of the drive."

They had taken their places, the very places in which they now sat, before he and Hanaud and Lemerre had left the restaurant upon their expedition of rescue. Into that short interval of time so much that was eventful had been crowded.

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