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Meanwhile, in strong, clear colours, Ricardo's picture stood out before his eyes. He was startled by hearing Wethermill say, in a firm voice: "My friend Ricardo has something to add to what you have said." "I!" exclaimed Ricardo. How in the world could Wethermill know of that clear picture in his mind? "Yes. You saw Celia Harland on the evening before the murder." Ricardo stared at his friend.
Wethermill stepped carefully again on to the grass, and with the toe of his shoe scraped up and ploughed the impressions which he and Adele Rossignol had made on the ground, leaving those which Celia had made. He came back to the window. "She has left her footmarks clear enough," he whispered. "There will be no doubt in the morning that she went of her own free will."
I kept it for them. But monsieur knows well" and the waiter looked towards Harry Wethermill "for monsieur was often with them." "Yes," said Hanaud. "Did Mme. Dauvray dine at that little table last night?" "No, monsieur. She was not here last night." "Nor Mlle. Celie?" "No, monsieur! I do not think they were in the Villa des Fleurs at all." "We know they were not," exclaimed Ricardo.
Ricardo's practice to collect celebrities round his dinner-table, and at one such gathering Hanaud and Wethermill had been present together. "You wish me to approach him?" "At once." "It is a delicate position," said Ricardo. "Here is a man in charge of a case of murder, and we are quietly to go to him " To his relief Wethermill interrupted him.
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.
"Do you remember that loud cry Wethermill gave when we returned to the room and once more I stood before the settee? Oh, he turned it off very well. I had said that our criminals in France were not very gentle with their victims, and he pretended that it was in fear of what Mlle. Celie might be suffering which had torn that cry from his heart. But it was not so.
Now it was Harry Wethermill who beset him. He repeated and repeated the name, trying to grasp the new and sinister suggestion which, if Hanaud were right, its sound must henceforth bear. Of course Hanaud might be wrong. Only, if he were wrong, how had he come to suspect Harry Wethermill? What had first directed his thoughts to that seemingly heart-broken man? And when?
Harry Wethermill sprang up with a gesture as though to sweep the need of sympathy away. "What can I do for you?" he asked. "You have a road map, perhaps?" said Hanaud. "Yes," said Wethermill, "mine is here. There it is"; and crossing the room he brought it from a sidetable and placed it in front of Hanaud. Hanaud took a pencil from his pocket.
For what reason Wethermill concerned himself in this affair? Oh! and a thousand things which I don't understand." "Ah, the cushions, and the scrap of paper, and the aluminium flask," said Hanaud; and the triumph faded from his face. He spoke now to Ricardo with a genuine friendliness. "You must not be angry with me if I keep you in the dark for a little while. I, too, Mr.
Adele took the girl's feet and drew them down to the step of the car. Then she pushed her out. Wethermill caught her in his arms and carried her to the landau. Celia dared not cry out. Her hands were helpless, her face at the mercy of that grim flask. Just ahead of them the lights of Geneva were visible, and from the lights a silver radiance overspread a patch of sky.
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