a smile. "I am growing wary. I will not tell
you what you were asking yourself, M. Hanaud. For even were I right you
would make out that I was wrong, and leap upon me with injuries and
gibes. No, you shall drink your coffee and tell me of your own accord."

"Well," said Hanaud, laughing, "I will tell you. I was asking myself:
'Why does a man who owns no motor-car, who hires no motor-car, go out
into Aix and buy an automobilist's road-map? With what object?' And I
found it an interesting question. M. Harry Wethermill was not the man
to go upon a walking tour, eh? Oh, I was obtaining evidence. But then
came an overwhelming thing--the murder of Marthe Gobin. We know now how
he did it. He walked beside the cab, put his head in at the window,
asked, 'Have you come in answer to the advertisement?' and stabbed her
straight to the heart through her dress. The dress and the weapon which
he used would save him from being stained with her blood. He was in
your room that morning, when we were at the station. As I told you, he
left his glove behind. He was searching for a telegram in answer to
your advertisement. Or he came to sound you. He had already received
his telegram from Hippolyte. He was like a fox in a cage, snapping at
every one, twisting vainly this way and that way, risking everything
and every one to save his precious neck. Marthe Gobin was in the way.
She is killed. Mlle. Celie is a danger. So Mile. Celie must be
suppressed. And off goes a telegram to the Geneva paper, handed in by a
waiter from the cafe at the station of Chambery before five o'clock.
Wethermill went to Chambery that afternoon when we went to Geneva. Once
we could get him on the run, once we could so harry and bustle him that
he must take risks--why, we had him. And that afternoon he had to take
them."

"So that even before Marthe Gobin was killed you were sure that
Wethermill was the murderer?"

Hanaud's face clouded over.

"You put your finger on a sore place, M. Ricardo. I was sure, but I
still wanted evidence to convict. I left him free, hoping for that
evidence. I left him free, hoping that he would commit himself. He did,
but--well, let us talk of some one else. What of Mlle. Celie?"

Ricardo drew a letter from his pocket.

"I have a sister in London, a widow," he said. "She is kind. I, too,
have been thinking of what will become of Mlle. Celie. I wrote to my
sister, and here is her reply. Mlle. Celie will be very welcome."

Hanaud stret