At the Villa Rose | Page 5

anticipated that a description of the
young Englishwoman, with a reward for her apprehension, will be
issued immediately. And it is not too much to hope that the citizens of
Aix, and indeed of Prance, will be cleared of all participation in so
cruel and sinister a crime."
Ricardo read through the paragraph with a growing consternation, and
laid the paper upon his dressing-table.
"It is infamous," cried Wethermill passionately.
"The young Englishwoman is, I suppose, your friend Miss Celia?" said
Ricardo slowly.
Wethermill started forward.
"You know her, then?" he cried in amazement.
"No; but I saw her with you in the rooms. I heard you call her by that
name."
"You saw us together?" exclaimed Wethermill. "Then you can
understand how infamous the suggestion is."
But Ricardo had seen the girl half an hour before he had seen her with
Harry Wethermill. He could not but vividly remember the picture of
her as she flung herself on to the bench in the garden in a moment of
hysteria, and petulantly kicked a satin slipper backwards and forwards
against the stones. She was young, she was pretty, she had a charm of
freshness, but--but--strive against it as he would, this picture in the
recollection began more and more to wear a sinister aspect. He
remembered some words spoken by a stranger. "She is pretty, that little
one. It is regrettable that she has lost."
Mr. Ricardo arranged his tie with even a greater deliberation than he
usually employed.

"And Mme. Dauvray?" he asked. "She was the stout woman with
whom your young friend went away?"
"Yes," said Wethermill.
Ricardo turned round from the mirror.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Hanaud is at Aix. He is the cleverest of the French detectives. You
know him. He dined with you once."
It was Mr. Ricardo's practice to collect celebrities round his
dinner-table, and at one such gathering Hanaud and Wethermill had
been present together.
"You wish me to approach him?"
"At once."
"It is a delicate position," said Ricardo. "Here is a man in charge of a
case of murder, and we are quietly to go to him--"
To his relief Wethermill interrupted him.
"No, no," he cried; "he is not in charge of the case. He is on his holiday.
I read of his arrival two days ago in the newspaper. It was stated that he
came for rest. What I want is that he should take charge of the case."
The superb confidence of Wethermill shook Mr. Ricardo for a moment,
but his recollections were too clear.
"You are going out of your way to launch the acutest of French
detectives in search of this girl. Are you wise, Wethermill?"
Wethermill sprang up from his chair in desperation.
"You, too, think her guilty! You have seen her. You think her
guilty--like this detestable newspaper, like the police."

"Like the police?" asked Ricardo sharply.
"Yes," said Harry Wethermill sullenly. "As soon as I saw that rag I ran
down to the villa. The police are in possession. They would not let me
into the garden. But I talked with one of them. They, too, think that she
let in the murderers."
Ricardo took a turn across the room. Then he came to a stop in front of
Wethermill.
"Listen to me," he said solemnly. "I saw this girl half an hour before I
saw you. She rushed out into the garden. She flung herself on to a
bench. She could not sit still. She was hysterical. You know what that
means. She had been losing. That's point number one."
Mr. Ricardo ticked it off upon his finger.
"She ran back into the rooms. You asked her to share the winnings of
your bank. She consented eagerly. And you lost. That's point number
two. A little later, as she was going away, you asked her whether she
would be in the rooms the next night--yesterday night- -the night when
the murder was committed. Her face clouded over. She hesitated. She
became more than grave. There was a distinct impression as though she
shrank from the contemplation of what it was proposed she should do
on the next night. And then she answered you, 'No, we have other
plans.' That's number three." And Mr. Ricardo ticked off his third point.
"Now," he asked, "do you still ask me to launch Hanaud upon the
case?"
"Yes, and at once," cried Wethermill.
Ricardo called for his hat and his stick.
"You know where Hanaud is staying?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Wethermill, and he led Ricardo to an unpretentious little
hotel in the centre of the town. Ricardo sent in his name, and the two

visitors were immediately shown into a small sitting- room, where M.
Hanaud was enjoying his morning chocolate. He was stout and