etly. "That was my telephone message."

Ricardo stared in stupefaction at his companion.

"Arrested!" he cried. "Arrested! But what for?"

"For the murders of Marthe Gobin and Mme. Dauvray," said Hanaud.
"Good-night."

CHAPTER XIV

MR. RICARDO IS BEWILDERED

Ricardo passed a most tempestuous night. He was tossed amongst dark
problems. 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? Certain recollections became
vivid in Mr. Ricardo's mind--the luncheon at the Villa Rose, for
instance. Hanaud had been so insistent that the woman with the red hair
was to be found in Geneva, had so clearly laid it down that a message,
a telegram, a letter from Aix to Geneva, would enable him to lay his
hands upon the murderer in Aix. He was isolating the house in Geneva
even so early in the history of his investigations, even so soon he
suspected Harry Wethermill. Brains and audacity--yes, these two
qualities he had stipulated in the criminal. Ricardo now for the first
time understood the trend of all Hanaud's talk at that luncheon. He was
putting Harry Wethermill upon his guard, he was immobilising him, he
was fettering him in precautions; with a subtle skill he was forcing
him to isolate himself. And he was doing it deliberately to save the
life of Celia Harland in Geneva. Once Ricardo lifted himself up with
the hair stirring on his scalp. He himself had been with Wethermill in
the baccarat-rooms on the very night of the murder. They had walked
together up the hill to the hotel. It could not be that Harry
Wethermill was guilty. And yet, he suddenly remembered, they had
together left the rooms at an early hour. It was only ten o'clock when
they had separated in the hall, when they had gone, each to his own
room. There would have been time for Wethermill to reach the Villa Rose
and do his dreadful work upon that night before twelve, if all had been
arranged beforehand, if all went as it had been arranged. And as he
thought upon the careful planning of that crime, and remembered
Wethermill's easy chatter as they had strolled from table to table in
the Villa des Fleurs, Ricardo shuddered. Though he encouraged