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Updated: June 25, 2025
Hanaud touched him on the arm and pointed to the table. Ricardo had seen the objects at which Hanaud pointed often enough without uneasiness; but now, in this silent house of crime, they had the most sinister and appalling aspect.
Those were the words, and here was a beautiful girl of twenty versed in those very tricks of imposture which would make Mme. Dauvray her natural prey! Ricardo looked at Wethermill, doubtful whether he should tell what he knew of Celia Harland or not. But before he had decided a knock came upon the door. "Here is Perrichet," said Hanaud, taking up his hat. "We will go down to the Villa Rose."
"I MUST catch him, for Marthe Gobin's death I cannot forgive. A poor woman meaning no harm, and murdered like a sheep under our noses. No, that I cannot forgive." Ricardo wondered whether it was the actual murder of Marthe Gobin or the fact that he had been beaten and outwitted which Hanaud could not forgive. But discretion kept him silent. "Let us go," said Hanaud.
Ricardo could see his eyes gleaming as the light from the window caught them. His face rose completely over the sill. He stared into the room without care or apprehension, and then dropped again out of the reach of the light. He turned to Hanaud. "The room is empty," he whispered. Hanaud turned to Ricardo. "Pass under the sill, or the light from the window will throw your shadow upon the lawn."
Hanaud walked away from the Villa Rose in the company of Wethermill and Ricardo. "We will go and lunch," he said. "Yes; come to my hotel," said Harry Wethermill. But Hanaud shook his head. "No; come with me to the Villa des Fleurs," he replied. "We may learn something there; and in a case like this every minute is of importance. We have to be quick." "I may come too?" cried Mr. Ricardo eagerly.
"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.
He looked up in perplexity and saw that Hanaud was watching his investigations with a smile of amusement. "When M. Ricardo has put that away," he said, "we will hear what Helene Vauquier has to tell us." He passed out of the door last, and, locking it, placed the key in his pocket. "Helene Vauquier's room is, I think, upstairs," he said. And he moved towards the staircase.
Wethermill stood upon the threshold watching with a sullen face the violation of this chamber by the officers of the police. No such feelings, however, troubled Hanaud. He went over to the dressing-room and opened a few small leather cases which held Celia's ornaments. In one or two of them a trinket was visible; others were empty.
"No," replied Hanaud. "There's an historic crime in your own country, monsieur. Cries for help were heard in a by-street of a town. When people ran to answer them, a man was found kneeling by a corpse. It was the kneeling man who cried for help, but it was also the kneeling man who did the murder. I remembered that when I first began to suspect Harry Wethermill." Ricardo turned eagerly.
"You have here, monsieur, a description of how mademoiselle was dressed when she went away." Helene Vauquier picked up a sheet of paper from the table at her side. "I wrote it out at the request of M. le Commissaire." She handed the paper to Hanaud, who glanced through it as she continued. "Well, except for the white lace coat, monsieur, I dressed Mlle. Celie just in that way.
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