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Updated: June 26, 2025
But Hanaud turned towards him, and, though Hanaud's face retained its benevolent expression, there was a glitter in his eyes which sent the blood into Ricardo's face. "Did you speak again, M. Ricardo?" the detective asked. "No? I thought it was not possible." He turned back to Helene Vauquier. "So Mlle. Celie practised seances. That is very strange. We will hear about them.
Rap on the tables in the dark and rattle tambourines like that one with the knot of ribbons which hangs upon the wall of the salon?" There was a gentle and inviting irony in Hanaud's tone. M. Ricardo was disappointed. Hanaud had after all not overlooked the tambourine. Without Ricardo's reason to notice it, he had none the less observed it and borne it in his memory. "Well?" he asked.
"If you think it better that your friend should live in torture until Marthe Gobin comes, and then perhaps suffer worse torture from the news she brings, be it so. You shall decide. If, on the other hand, you think it will be best to leave M. Wethermill in peace until we know her story, be it so. You shall decide." Ricardo moved uneasily. The solemnity of Hanaud's manner impressed him.
You see that if we leave her quite free, but watch her very, very carefully, so as to awaken no suspicion, she may be emboldened to do something rash or the others may." Mr. Ricardo approved of Hanaud's reasoning. "That is quite true," he said. "She might write a letter."
On the card the gummed fragments of paper revealed a sentence: "Je ne sais pas." "'I do not know," said Ricardo; "now this is very important." Beside the card Celia's letter to Wethermill was laid. "What do you think?" asked Hanaud. Besnard, the Commissaire of Police, bent over Hanaud's shoulder. "There are strong resemblances," he said guardedly. Ricardo was on the look-out for deep mysteries.
She is very pretty, very gentle. If if no one comes forward whom she loves and who loves her I yes, I myself, who was her papa for one night, will be her husband forever." He laughed inordinately at his own joke; it was a habit of M. Hanaud's. Then he said gravely: "But I am glad, M. Ricardo, for Mlle. Celie's sake that I came to your amusing dinner-party in London." Mr.
"What have you done?" Hanaud's face flushed. He had been guilty of a clumsiness even he. Mr. Ricardo took up the tale. "Yes," he exclaimed, "what have you done?" Hanaud looked at Ricardo in amazement at his audacity. "Well, what have I done?" he asked. "Come! tell me!" "You have destroyed a clue," replied Ricardo impressively. The deepest dejection at once overspread Hanaud's burly face.
This chocolate is very good; it is better than that which I get in my hotel." "Good heavens!" cried Ricardo, who was fairly twittering with excitement. "You sit there talking about chocolate while my cup shakes in my fingers." "Again I must remind you that you are the amateur, I the professional, my friend." As the morning drew on, however, Hanaud's professional quietude deserted him.
It was a spiritualistic performance at which Julius Ricardo had been present two years ago. The young, fair-haired girl in black velvet, the medium, was Celia Harland. That was the picture which was in Ricardo's mind, and Hanaud's description of Mme. Dauvray made a terrible commentary upon it. "Easily taken by a new face, generous, and foolishly superstitious, a living provocation to every rogue."
Hanaud's manner had altogether changed. It was now authoritative and alert. He turned to Ricardo. "You will swear to what you saw in the garden and to the words you heard?" he asked. "They are important." "Yes," said Ricardo. But he kept silence about that clear picture in his mind which to him seemed no less important, no less suggestive.
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