However, we will call the head waiter."

The head waiter was sent for and appeared before them.

"You knew Mme. Dauvray?" Hanaud asked.

"Yes, monsieur--oh, the poor woman! And he flung up his hands.

"And you knew her young companion?"

"Oh yes, monsieur. They generally had their meals here. See, at that
little table over there! 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. "Wethermill and I were in
the rooms and we did not see them."

"But perhaps you left early," objected Hanaud.

"No," said Ricardo. "It was just ten o'clock when we reached the
Majestic."

"You reached your hotel at ten," Hanaud repeated. "Did you walk
straight from here?"

"Yes."

"Then you left here about a quarter to ten. And we know that Mme.
Dauvray was back at the villa soon after nine. Yes--they could not have
been here last night," Hanaud agreed, and sat for a moment silent. Then
he turned to the head waiter.

"Have you noticed any woman with Mme. Dauvray and her companion lately?"

"No, monsieur. I do not think so."

"Think! A woman, for instance, with red hair."

Harry Wethermill started forward. Mr. Ricardo stared at Hanaud in
amazement. The waiter reflected.

"No, monsieur. I have seen no woman with red hair."

"Thank you," said Hanaud, and the waiter moved away.

"A woman with red hair!" cried Wethermill. "But Helene Vauquier
described her. She was sallow; her eyes, her hair, were dark."

Hanaud turned with a smile to Harry Wethermill.

"Did Helene Vauquier, then, speak the truth?" he asked. "No; the woman
who was in the salon last night, who returned home with Mme. Dauvray
and Mlle. Celie, was not a woman with black hair and bright black eyes.
Look!" And, fetching his pocket-book from his pocket, he unfolded a
sheet of paper and showed them, lying upon its white surface a long red
hair.

"I picked that up on the table-the round satinwood table in the salon.
It was easy not to see it, but I did see it. Now, that is not Mlle.
Celie's hair, which is fair; nor Mme. Dauvray's, which is dyed brown;
nor Helene Vauquier's, which is black; nor the charwoman's, which, as I