his feelings must have been, when in Mme.
Dauvray's bedroom, with the woman he had uselessly murdered lying rigid
beneath the sheet, he saw me raise the block of wood from the inlaid
floor and take out one by one those jewel cases for which less than
twelve hours before he had been ransacking that very room. But what he
must have felt! And to give no sign! Oh, these people are the
interesting problems in this story. Let us hear what happened on that
terrible night. The puzzle--that can wait." In Mr. Ricardo's view
Hanaud was proved right. The extraordinary and appalling story which
was gradually unrolled of what had happened on that night of Tuesday in
the Villa Rose exceeded in its grim interest all the mystery of the
puzzle. But it was not told at once.

The trouble at first with Mlle. Celie was a fear of sleep. She dared
not sleep--even with a light in the room and a nurse at her bedside.
When her eyes were actually closing she would force herself desperately
back into the living world. For when she slept she dreamed through
again that dark and dreadful night of Tuesday and the two days which
followed it, until at some moment endurance snapped and she woke up
screaming. But youth, a good constitution, and a healthy appetite had
their way with her in the end.

She told her share of the story--she told what happened. There was
apparently one terrible scene when she was confronted with Harry
Wethermill in the office of Monsieur Fleuriot, the Juge d'lnstruction,
and on her knees, with the tears streaming down her face, besought him
to confess the truth. For a long while he held out. And then there came
a strange and human turn to the affair. Adele Rossignol--or, to give
her real name, Adele Tace, the wife of Hippolyte--had conceived a
veritable passion for Harry Wethermill. He was of a not uncommon type,
cold and callous in himself, yet with the power to provoke passion in
women. And Adele Tace, as the story was told of how Harry Wethermill
had paid his court to Celia Harland, was seized with a vindictive
jealousy. Hanaud was not surprised. He knew the woman-criminal of his
country--brutal, passionate, treacherous. The anonymous letters in a
woman's handwriting which descend upon the Rue de Jerusalem, and betray
the men who have committed thefts, had left him no illusions upon that
figure in the history of crime. Adele Rossignol ran forward to confess,
so that Harry Wethermill might suffer to the last possible point of